“She’s seaworthy,” said Milus. “Three hundred and fifty feet of seasoned timber. She leaks no more than a man can sweat, and she’ll ride any storm the gods can throw our way. She’s sleek. She’s fast. What else do you need to know?”
“You talk of the… ship… as a woman.”
“Better than any woman I ever knew,” said Milus, grinning. “She’s never let me down.”
“She seems so small against the immensity of the ocean,” observed Eskodas.
“We are all small against the ocean, lad. But there are few storms at this time of year. Our danger is pirates, and that’s why you are here.” He stared at the young bowman, his grey eyes narrowing under heavy brows. “If you don’t mind me saying so, lad, you seem a little out of place among these killers and villains.”
“I don’t object to you saying it, sir,” Eskodas told him. “They might object to hearing it, however. Thank you for your time and your courtesy.”
The bowman climbed down to the main deck. Men were lounging everywhere, some dicing, others talking. By the port rail several others were engaged in an arm-wrestling tourney. Eskodas moved through them towards the prow.
The sun was bright in a blue sky, and there was a good following breeze. Gulls circled high above the ship, and to the north he could just make out the coast of Lentria. At this distance the land seemed misty and unreal, a place of ghosts and legends.
There were two men sitting by the prow. One was the slim young man who had boarded the ship so spectacularly. Blond and handsome, long hair held in place by a silver headband, his clothes were expensive - a pale blue shirt of fine silk, dark blue leggings of lambswool seamed with soft leather. The other man was huge; he had lifted Kelva as if the warrior weighed no more than a few ounces, and hurled him into the sea like a spear. Eskodas approached them. The giant was younger than he had first thought, but the beginnings of a dark beard gave him the look of someone older. Eskodas met his gaze. Cold blue eyes, flint-hard and unwelcoming. The bowman smiled. “Good morning,” he said. The giant grunted something, but the blond dandy rose and extended his hand.
“Hello, there. My name is Sieben. This is Druss.”
“Ay, yes. He defeated Grassin at the tournament - broke his jaw, I believe.”
“In several places,” said Sieben.
“I am Eskodas.” The bowman sat down on a coiled rope and leaned his back against a cloth-bound bale. Closing his eyes, he felt the sun warm on his face. The silence lasted for several moments, then the two men resumed their conversation.
Eskodas didn’t listen too intently… something about a woman and assassins.
He thought of the journey ahead. He had never seen Ventria, which according to the story books was a land of fabled wealth, dragons, centaurs and many wild beasts. He tended to disbelieve the part about the dragons; he was widely travelled, and in every country there were stories of them, but never had Eskodas seen one. In Chiatze there was a museum where the bones of a dragon had been re-assembled. The skeleton was colossal, but it had no wings, and a neck that was at least eight feet long. No fire could have issued from such a throat, he thought.
But dragons or not, Eskodas looked forward with real pleasure to seeing Ventria.
“You don’t say much, do you?” observed Sieben.
Eskodas opened his eyes and smiled. “When I have something to say, I will speak,” he said.
“You’ll never get the chance,” grunted Druss. “Sieben talks enough for ten men.”
Eskodas smiled politely. “You are the saga-master,” he said.
“Yes. How gratifying to be recognised.”
“I saw you in Corteswain. You gave a performance of The Song of Karnak. It was very good; I particularly enjoyed the tale of Dros Purdol and the siege, though I was less impressed by the arrival of the gods of war, and the mysterious princess with the power to hurl lightning.”
“Dramatic licence,” said Sieben, with a tight smile.
“The courage of men needs no such licence,” said Eskodas. “It lessens the heroism of the defenders to suggest that they had divine help.”
“It was not a history lesson,” Sieben pointed out, his smile fading. “It was a poem - a song. The arrival of the gods was merely an artistic device to highlight that courage will sometimes bring about good fortune.”
“Hmmm,” said Eskodas, leaning back and closing his eyes.
“What does that mean?” demanded Sieben. “Are you disagreeing?”
Eskodas sighed. “It is not my wish to provoke an argument, sir poet, but I think the device was a poor one. You maintain it was inserted to supply dramatic effect. There is no point in further discussion; I have no desire to increase your anger.”
“I am not angry, damn you!” stormed Sieben.
“He doesn’t take well to criticism,” said Druss.
“That’s very droll,” snapped Sieben, “coming as it does from the man who tosses shipmates over the side at the first angry word. Now why was it a poor device?”
Eskodas leaned forward. “I have been in many sieges. The point of greatest courage comes at the end, when all seems lost; that is when weak men break and run, or beg for their lives. You had the gods arrive just before that moment, and offer divine assistance to thwart the Vagrians. Therefore the truly climactic moment was lost, for as soon as the gods appeared we knew victory was assured.”
“I would have lost some of my best lines. Especially the end, where the warriors wonder if they will ever see the gods again.”
