The Awakening (18 page)

For a moment Wyn found himself without an opponent. He stood, breathing heavily, his mind and body numb, his cutlass hanging low. Around him the struggle went on. He could see his fellow crewmembers striving, fighting against the boarders and for just a fleeting instant he wondered if he was
fighting for the right side. Then he heard the guttural bellow of Sacchin as he received a ringing blow to the side of his head. The big islander staggered back, clutching at the wound, attempting to staunch the flow of blood. His axe clanged to the deck, forgotten in his pain.

Wyn’s brief moment of indecision vanished as he leaped forward, shouldering aside friend and foe alike to plunge his own weapon deep into the attacker’s side even as he raised his blade to finish the job on Sacchin. With a gasp, the attacker shuddered and fell to the deck. Wyn looked at Sacchin as he lay slumped at his feet. He was bleeding heavily from his head wound but he still breathed, and as Wyn looked the islander grinned back. Taking this as a good sign, Wyn turned around to face the fight that still raged.

Time ceased to have any meaning as he fought; most of his mind went cold, leaving him with his training, instincts and the fear. It was the fear that really drove him on, only the fear that made him kill, only the fear that made him ignore his many wounds, only the fear that kept him alive.

The Raiders were losing. His instincts told him that much. There were too many attackers, coming from both sides. They were too well equipped, too well trained, and he would die here. The sudden knowledge filled him with sadness. But not for himself, for her. She had power, but without anyone to help her she might never know its extent, nor would she be able to use it to save herself and her people. The anguish was overwhelming, driving him to cry out with the sudden pain. With an oath as old
as Danan herself, he threw himself back into the fray; if he were going to die, then he would make them pay.

He was still fighting, driving two men backwards towards the railings, when he became distantly aware of a slowing, a quietening of the chaos around him. He paused, lowering his arms. The men, who moments ago were fighting for their lives, threw down their weapons and fled, leaving him alone. A breeze stirred his blood-soaked hair.

He turned and saw what everyone else had already seen. A squall was approaching. Where scant minutes ago there was clear sky, a black cloud was now sweeping across the sky towards them. Below it, the Sea surged, the swell rising, whitecaps showing. As he stared at the storm, all he could see was wild, white-blonde hair and sad lavender eyes. A single tear wended its way through the blood on his face. ‘Hwenfayre,’ he muttered.

With a rush, all the attackers who could stand were running, leaping across the narrow stretch of water, scrambling to reach their own vessels, to cut the ropes that held them tied. Desperately they hacked at the heavy ropes, knowing that their only chance of survival lay in outrunning the squall, and that they could only do alone. But they were not in time.

The squall hit them like a hammer. Instantly they were plunged into darkness, a wild sea surging all around them, rain smashing down, the ships tossed like corks. Men were thrown overboard, their dying cries swept away by the insanely shrieking wind. Wyn found himself sliding across the plunging deck
towards the hungry grey waters. In desperation, he wrapped his arms around a stanchion. A wave crashed over him as if trying to tear him away from the ship. His body swung around until he was hanging over the side as the ship rose over a wave and then dove down, plunging into the sea.

His aching body was smashed against the side of the ship, driving the air from his lungs, taking the last of his strength from his arms. His grip started to loosen as he began his final plunge into the Sea, which he had deserted so many years before.

But just as his fingers despaired a strong hand clamped onto his wrist. In disbelief he looked up, into the one remaining eye of Sacchin.

The storm blew itself out as quickly as it had appeared, further adding to the fears of the crew. These were men who knew the Sea, and storms that appeared out of nowhere and then vanished just as completely were unnatural, things of superstitious awe. Marek knew this as well as any, so he gave the men no chance to gather and mutter. Instead he had them busy on the lookout for the other ships, starting repairs and cleaning the decks. Within minutes, the muttering had ceased.

The wounded, of whom there were many, were treated by a sailor with rudimentary medical skills. This explained, thought Wyn, why there were so many scars.

Sacchin had only lost his left eye, but Garth had been killed. Another widow would grieve the loss of a father for her child. For now there were things to do. His own wounds, whilst painful, were not life threatening, so he worked with the others.

The hours passed quickly, and it was nearing sunset when the lookout called.

‘Sail to windward!’ he bellowed.

With a curse Marek glared up at the lookout. ‘How does she lie?’ he called.

‘Low in the water. Ill-rigged to run.’

‘Come about!’ called Marek. ‘Rig for pursuit!’

Wyn thought this strange given the state of both the
Gretchen
and the crew manning her, but one look at Sacchin relieved his fears. The islander grinned at him.

‘Better, eh, Wyn? Enough of this running. Marek knows what we need. A fight to take our minds off losing. Maybe we can end the day with some plunder.’

Wyn had to nod in agreement but as they drew closer he realised the ship they were chasing was in worse shape than they were. It was one of the vessels that had attacked them.

It was listing slightly and its sails were only partially set. Marek called the crew in.

‘Men,’ he said, ‘most battles are won in the first moments. When you see your enemy you either think you can win or not. So even though we have taken a fair beating, they don’t know that. Now we have a chance to take a ship without spilling any more blood. Any more of
our
blood, that is.’ The crew chuckled, sensing treachery. ‘It’s simple: all we have to do is sail up to them, looking hungry for a fight, and make a lot of noise, and they’ll throw in quick and easy. So wash the blood off, arm yourselves and look well. Anyone who can’t stand, sit on a box and look mean.’

When they were within hailing range, Marek bellowed, ‘Ahoy, the ship! Prepare to be boarded!’ The crew made a brief show of defiance, but as the
Gretchen
drew closer, the cries of anger, the menacing bristling of weaponry and the loaded mangonels broke what was left of their spirit. They threw down their weapons in surrender.

When the
Gretchen
bumped alongside, the crew swarmed over the rails and claimed the vessel without a fight. The defeated men were shackled together and herded below decks to await their fate.

‘Captain!’ came a cry from below.

‘What there?’ responded Marek.

‘Captain, you should see this.’

Marek, with several others in tow, stalked over to the open hatch. He peered down into the dark hold. What he saw made his face beam with pleasure. ‘What have we here?’ Marek said loudly. ‘A hold full of plunder?’ Wyn shouldered his way forward and looked down. The dark area was stacked with crates and bales. A cheer went up from the Raiders.

The defeated crew was given a simple choice; join the Raiders and sail with them or try their luck with the ocean, without a boat. They all joined up.

Thus it was that Marek, who had never lost a ship at sea, turned for home three months early with two ships instead of one, and one full of loot and a dozen or so new Raiders.

They sailed south through the part of the sea known as the Reaches where none sailed by choice. There the Sea was wild and deep, driven by harsh winds to heap up into mountainous swells. Marek never left the deck during those days, never ventured
below to rest or take food. He stood by the wheel, eyes ever scouring the horizon for signs of danger.

A silence fell over the crew as they ventured further, deeper into the untamed seas. Tempers grew frayed as the days grew darker. Scuffles became common, occasionally spilling over into brawls. Two men died. One was killed in a fight; the other was thrown overboard for killing the first.

The despairing cries of the killer as they sailed away from his waving arms seemed to drive the men deeper into the darkness that had grown up around them. They became even surlier, shorter of temper and more prone to aggression. Fights became commonplace as trivial matters took on great import. Men were stabbed over food, beaten over a look or abused over a word. Even Wyn found himself falling prey to the black mood. His normally solitary and silent ways became aggressive and brusque.

It was about a week after they turned south that Marek called for the sails to be furled. Both vessels drifted, losing their way in the heavy swells. They were lashed together and Marek moved to stand amidships.

‘Men!’ he called. ‘For most of you, we are about to go home. But for some of you this is far from home. I know the sort of thing you may have heard of us, the Southern Raiders. And in many cases it is true and well deserved. But we are not slavers. Those of you who joined our crew against their will during our voyage now have the choice. Either come with us and join us forever, or leave us. Our home is just beyond the horizon and no one who is not one with
us can set foot on our homeland. So if any of you want to leave, step forward.’

A few of those who were on the captured ship stepped forward. Wyn thought about it, but he was unsure and wanted to live. Instead he stayed where he was and waited.

Marek waited until no one else moved. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Blindfold these men and keep them below until we arrive.’

The home of the Southern Raiders was an island formed from the remains of an ancient volcano that had erupted with such ferocity that it formed a large bay surrounded by a high jagged ridge. Within the bay, the waters were calm and protected, and the only way in was through a narrow break in the wall.

Inside the bay was a vast shipyard. Hundreds of ships were tied up at dozens of docks or were up out of the water being repaired. All around the rugged walls that rose from the still water were dwellings perched on whatever ledge or crack that afforded any purchase.

As she sailed through the entry the
Gretchen
was met by a heavily armed vessel.

‘Marek!’ came the cry from the other vessel. ‘You’re early!’

‘Aye,’ he called back, ‘I am, but I bring plunder and a new vessel.’

‘Have you any who wish to leave?’

‘I have.’

They were escorted to a dock where they tied up. The blindfolded men were led off the
Gretchen
and taken aboard another ship, which immediately set off, back out to sea.

‘Where will they be taken?’ Wyn asked Sacchin.

‘To the first dry land they see. They’ll be left there to make their own way.’ Sacchin was distracted as they tied up. He was looking at the dock, scanning the people that waited there, obviously seeking someone. Suddenly his face broke into a smile and all the darkness and tension that had beset him for the past weeks fell away. He beamed as he raised his hand in greeting. Wyn followed his gaze to see a woman smiling back, her hand also raised in greeting.

‘Come on, Wyn,’ said Sacchin. ‘Shar is here. Let’s go and get drunk together.’

Sacchin, a sack over his shoulder, led Wyn down the crowded gangplank into the melee on the dock. With a bellow he shouldered his way through to catch Shar into a bearhug of heroic proportions. They kissed noisily and long, savouring the moment of meeting after months apart. Finally their lips parted and Sacchin put Shar down.

‘Wyn,’ he said, turning around. ‘This is Shar. My woman.’

‘You told me you had no woman to weep over your death at sea,’ observed Wyn quietly.

Both Shar and Sacchin laughed. ‘He always says that,’ said Shar. ‘It helps him keep his mind clear for the fight.’

Sacchin nodded.

Shar was not tall, and had long fair hair, a full figure and a ready smile. She turned her smile on Wyn. ‘Be welcome,’ she said. ‘Come to our home and be our guest.’ Although the words seemed a ritual greeting, her voice was warm and he felt welcomed.

‘Surely,’ he agreed.

He followed them along narrow streets that wound their way past the large harbour. Above him stretched the forbidding walls of black rock, dotted with buildings. On the landward side of the street, stalls of every kind were squeezed into any space that would hold a table. All manner of goods were on offer, but unlike most markets Wyn had been in, these merchants were quiet and polite, seeking to entice buyers with a smile and a kind word, rather than haranguing customers. He remarked on this to Sacchin.

‘These are sailors, like us, on their one-year land leave. They know that next year they’ll be the ones where we are. It breeds respect. And the Commander likes things peaceable.’

‘The Commander?’

‘The leader of the Raiders.’ Sacchin looked up the cliff, gesturing towards a building perched high on the wall. ‘He lives up there, although he’s away at the moment.’

Wyn regarded the Commander’s home. ‘What’s his name?’

Sacchin shrugged. ‘Don’t know,’ he said. Noticing Wyn’s frown, he continued. ‘It’s no secret, I just don’t bother with such things. He keeps the place peaceful, we are well fed and there’s plunder aplenty on the Sea.’

‘His name’s Garel,’ said Shar. ‘He was a ship’s captain until he lost a leg in a battle against the Children of Danan. When he came back here he nominated for the Council. He became Commander about ten years ago.’

Sacchin grinned broadly. ‘See? Why should a man bother with such things when he has a woman like this at his side?’

Wyn nodded in agreement, but his mind was picturing a mass of untamed white-blonde hair over a pair of lavender eyes. Shar’s mention of the Children of Danan had reawakened his thoughts of Hwenfayre. Once more he recalled why he was here, how he had come to this place and why he had to leave.
Hwenfayre
, he thought,
where are you?