The Awakening (31 page)

He scarcely spoke to her on the long journey back through the forest. At first she believed that he was too shocked and lost in his own thoughts to speak, but after they left the gloom and passed into the sunshine again she wasn’t so sure.

Why pass by several fine places to stay and come here to this small, if elegant, house? It couldn’t be money; she was still in uniform, so she could request accommodation anywhere. Perhaps he was concerned about the possibility of treachery; that could explain it. However, if that was the case, why ignore the Army outposts?

Her litter bumped and scraped over the pebbled pathway before it stopped, presumably near the entrance of the house. She was strapped into her litter and could not turn to see anything ahead.

‘Urtane,’ Cherise had said. ‘It is a pleasure to see you again.’

‘Cherise,’ the Tribesman grunted in reply. ‘I hope you’re not here scavenging like the last visitors we had.’

An Ettan accent! Another Tribesman?
Leone thought.

Cherise said something so quietly that she could not make out the words, before coughing harshly. ‘Could you let Maru know I am here?’ he asked.

‘Maru is away,’ the Ettan voice had answered.

‘Ys, then?’

‘Ys is here, Cherise.’

‘Good,’ said Cherise. She heard him take several steps across a wooden floor. ‘Bring that inside, Urtane,’ he said. ‘I’ll need it later.’

She heard more footsteps and then a door opened and closed. Heavy feet approached her. On impulse she closed her eyes and lay still.

‘You’re a pretty one then, aren’t you?’ the Ettan voice asked. She felt the slick smoothness of a knife against her skin as the man cut her bonds. To complete the illusion of unconsciousness, she allowed herself to slump, sliding down the upright litter. A powerful hand grabbed her and hefted her up, over his shoulder. The man made no sound as he lifted her, nor was there any indication that she was a burden to him. Years of training and experience meant that, even in her present state, she was assessing him as a possible adversary.

Right-handed, tall, very strong,
she thought. It was a chill evening, yet his chest was bare.
A northerner.
The smell of strong herbs assailed her nostrils as she dangled over his back.
A Tribesman, no question.

He carried her up the stairs and through the door. As they entered, she heard a woman laugh.

‘…wouldn’t call me that,’ she was saying. ‘You know it’s not my name, or my title.’

‘It should be, Andrine,’ replied Cherise, ‘it should be.’

‘You are a cheeky man, Cherise,’ replied Andrine. ‘I don’t know why Maru puts up with you.’

‘Nor do I, Danan, nor do I,’ replied Cherise.

A door opened. ‘Yes you do, you old fraud,’ boomed a powerful voice.

‘Ys, what a pleasure,’ said Cherise.

The man called Urtane carried her through another door before she could hear any more.
All Tribesmen,
she thought.
Danan? Where have I heard that name before?

She did not have time to ponder the answer as she was thrown roughly down onto a bed or couch of some sort. The pain from her injuries shot through her like a lance. Before she could stifle it, a groan escaped her lips. Urtane heard the sound.

‘Awake are we, pretty?’ he rumbled. A rough hand shook her. More agony drove another sound from her. Some water was dashed into her face. She coughed and gasped, opening her eyes.

Urtane was even bigger than she had imagined. His muscled chest was covered in tattoos and his leering face bore the scars of either ritual initiation or brutal torture. One look into the dead-blue eyes and she decided on the latter.

‘Cherise told me to bring you inside but he didn’t say what I was supposed to do with you,’ he said. ‘What can we do?’ he said. As he spoke his hand gripped one of her breasts and squeezed. She gasped at the pain. ‘Good size,’ he commented, squeezing again. ‘And firm. I like it.’ He started to undo her tunic but gave up after a few fumbling attempts.
Abandoning any effort at subtlety, he ripped the tunic off. He gazed at her chest, now only lightly covered by a cotton undershirt. This also went the way of the tunic. ‘Nice,’ he commented.

Leone lay still, but with her uninjured left hand she was slowly searching for the long narrow dagger that was hidden in a sheath under her hip. Urtane started to pull at her greaves, lifting them up to tear at the skirt beneath. His actions gave her the cover she needed to unsheathe the poignard without his noticing.

He was just about to rip off the last of her clothes when she whipped the poignard up to rest against his throat, its tip trembling slightly with the pulse that ran through his jugular. Leone rose to a sitting position. Urtane stayed crouched beside her.

‘I never have sex on the first date,’ she hissed. ‘And I don’t like you anyway.’

She stood slowly, keeping the point of the blade against his throat. He swallowed, the movement causing the point to draw a drop of blood.

‘Danan’s blood!’ Urtane gasped. ‘What a woman!’

‘More of a woman than you can handle,’ she snapped.

‘I can see that,’ Urtane agreed. ‘What’s your name, fighting woman?’

‘Leone,’ she snapped. ‘Caldorman Leone, to you.’

‘I guessed Coerl, from the Needle,’ Urtane said.

‘Sit down,’ Leone ordered, easing the point of her Needle into his neck a bit more. He sat down quickly as more blood trickled down his neck. With the Needle steadily pointed at his face, she glanced around. Seeing some rope close by, she kicked it
across the floor to him. ‘Tie your left hand to your right foot,’ she ordered.

Urtane’s eyes widened, but one look at her bruised face and hard expression was enough. He complied.

When he was finished, Leone quickly stepped in close and dealt him a ringing blow to the side of the head with the hilt of the Thane’s Needle. It was not enough to render him unconscious, but it stunned him long enough for her to tie his right hand to his left foot. She stood up quickly, but as she did, the sudden exertion sent her head spinning. With a startled cry, she lost her balance and crashed to the floor.

When Leone came to, she realised she was dressed and lying on a bed. She was not bound, but pain still racked her body. Slowly she opened her eyes, focusing on her surroundings. Standing over her were Diplomat Cherise, a huge Tribesman and an exquisitely beautiful woman with white-blonde hair and the most startling violet eyes.

‘It’s about time you woke up,’ grumbled the big Tribesman. ‘That’s a very nasty blade you carry, woman. That little nick was almost enough to kill Urtane. If we’d been a few minutes later, he’d have bled to death. That’s almost enough reason for you to die, right there.’

Leone went to answer, but the Tribesman grabbed the stump of her right arm and squeezed it savagely. She screamed.

‘Ys,’ murmured Cherise. ‘Remember the state we found her in. I imagine she was merely defending herself.’ He looked at Leone, a kindly smile softening his avuncular features. ‘Isn’t that right, Leone?’

Through the red haze of pain she managed to nod.

‘There,’ said Cherise, ‘that’s all right then.’

‘My uniform?’ Leone croaked.

The small woman frowned and shook her head. ‘I’m afraid Urtane spoiled it, and what with all the bloodstains…’ She let her voice trail off.

Leone was surprised at how the news cut. For all her adult life that uniform had been her anchor, her source of security. It had given her a place in the world, a meaning to her life, and now, with it gone, destroyed by the twin events of her own brutal wounding and the attack by Urtane, she did not know how to feel. She wondered at the numbness she felt.

‘I have given you some of my clothes,’ the woman went on. ‘I had to modify them but they look well enough on you.’

Leone looked down. She was wearing a long dress with a tight bodice. On her feet were sandals over thick stockings. Her eyes went to the wreck that was her right arm. The arox had taken it from just above the elbow, leaving her with little more than a useless stump. The sleeve of the dress lay limply on the bed beside her. The pain of looking at the empty sleeve was far worse than the physical pain of her injuries.

‘Perhaps we should leave Leone to rest,’ suggested Cherise. He ushered them away and closed the door behind them, leaving Leone alone.

She lay awake for a long time, listening to muffled conversations and the normal sounds of a house at night. There were a few odd sounds, skittering and clicking from time to time, but she finally drifted into a dream-filled sleep.

She woke up some time after dawn, ravenously hungry and parched with thirst. With a grunt of pain, she swung her legs off the bed and lurched unsteadily to her feet. She stood still while the room slowed its crazy spinning. Once she was sure where the door was, she carefully made her way towards it.

It was not locked and she opened it. It led out into a corridor. From her left came the sounds of conversation, from her right wafted the smells of cooking. She chose the right. As she walked, the rustle of her skirt, the way it flowed about her legs, the unaccustomed feel of the bodice disconcerted her. It was years since she had worn anything so overtly feminine. That was not to say she had no skirts or feminine clothes of her own, but she rarely had opportunity to wear them, and none was so rich or, as she looked down, revealing. The Ettan woman was not so well endowed that she had need of much covering. Leone realised that she was almost overflowing the resewn bodice. Self-consciously she tugged at the material, attempting a more appropriate arrangement.

The kitchen was a warm, busy place where the cook and her several assistants and two Skrin Tia’k slaves worked on preparing a large breakfast. Leone stood at the door waiting to be noticed. The small Skrinnie swivelled its head towards her and clicked. The larger one turned, saw her and clicked also. They went back to their work, clicking busily. After a few minutes the cook looked up.

‘Who are you, then?’ she snapped.

‘Leone,’ Leone replied. ‘I am a guest here. I was wondering if I could have something to eat.’

‘A guest, eh? That’s not what Urtane told us,’ she laughed. The others chuckled as well. ‘Come on in then,’ she said. ‘Sit over there, I’ve got some warm oats and fresh bread.’ She frowned. ‘From the look of you, you could use some meat and eggs too.’

Leone sat where she was bade and a young girl hurried to fix her a breakfast. It was hot and wholesome, and after she had washed it down with two mugs of steaming jerva she felt human again.

‘The Thane thanks you,’ she said automatically.

The response was not what she was expecting.

‘I certainly hope not!’ the cook shrieked in laughter. ‘Not around here, at least!’

The two Skrinnies clicked rapidly at each other, while the rest of the servants either busied themselves with their work or looked away nervously. Leone was a leader and a trained observer of responses, and she was troubled by what she saw. This was a house that had set itself apart from the Empire, a place of treachery, but not everyone here was a willing traitor, which spoke of coercion and threats.

Leone’s military training took over as she pushed aside her plate. Instead of seeing a kitchen, she saw a potential battle arena. The cook’s assistants she dismissed as threats, they were mostly young girls or old women, but the cook herself looked oddly out of place. She was a big, strong woman with not an ounce of excess fat on her, unlike the traditional view of cooks. Leone watched her closely. She had strong hands and the way she used her knife was military, not domestic, Leone realised with a start.

What is going on here?
she wondered.

She did not get much time to consider what it was as Diplomat Cherise came into the kitchen. ‘Ah, there you are, Leone,’ he exclaimed. ‘And looking well this morning. Excellent!’

Leone nodded as she stood.

‘Are you up to travelling?’ he went on.

‘Yes, Diplomat. I think so.’

‘Good.’

Outside, two horses were saddled and waiting. The pretty Ettan Tribeswoman was standing by.

‘Good travelling, Diplomat,’ she said. ‘And,’ she turned to Leone, ‘I trust you will accept our apologies for the disgraceful behaviour of Urtane. He will be dismissed from our service as soon as he is recovered.’

Leone nodded curtly. ‘My thanks for the clothes,’ she said.

Andrine gave her a cheerful smile. ‘They look much better on you than me. At least you can fill a bodice.’ To Leone’s surprise, her cheeks flamed.

Cherise laughed as he clambered up onto his horse. ‘Now, Andrine, don’t embarrass Leone,’ he chided. ‘She is still a Caldorman in the Army of the World.’

Andrine’s smile faded. ‘Indeed she is, Diplomat. Indeed she is.’

Leone swung up onto her horse, feeling the imbalance of her lost arm as she did so. She tried to fight down the pang of anguish but failed, and tears sprang unbidden to her eyes. To cover the rush of emotion she spurred her horse on as soon as she was set in the saddle.

It was a good horse and it took to the gallop with pleasure. ‘Come, Diplomat,’ she called as she sped past him. ‘Ajyne awaits.’

The ship they were chasing was fast, but the
Gretchen
was slightly faster. Assuming the ships had captains of equal skill, it was just a matter of time. Marek had greatly impressed Wyn with his skills as a captain during the three-day pursuit. He had never let the vessel out of sight and despite the obvious skills of the other captain, he had matched him move for move.

It was the time Wyn had dreaded throughout this whole voyage, the time they caught a ship of the Children. He had worried about how he would feel once they had a ship of his people in their sights, but he found himself strangely detached.

‘What do you think, Wyn?’ asked Sacchin. ‘Tonight we catch her?’

Wyn nodded. ‘About an hour before sunset.’

Sacchin agreed. ‘That’s the talk. Should make for an interesting night, don’t you think?’

Wyn shook his head. ‘No, a very unpleasant night. They won’t give in easily.’

‘Hope not,’ grinned the big Raider. ‘It’s been a long time coming.’

They were wrong. It was just after midday when the vessel they were chasing slowed and came about. Marek had not expected this but his crew was ready for the fight anyway. The mangonels were loaded, the fires burning and the men armed.

As the ships closed, Wyn saw what he had hoped not to see. Standing in the prow was a woman. She was clad in the long robe of a Priestess and she bore a harp. Brandishing it like a weapon, she held it aloft and screamed a challenge at the approaching
Gretchen
.

‘This is not good,’ muttered Sacchin. ‘Do you know what this means?’

Wyn nodded. ‘I know.’

‘So much for the Children’s vulnerability.’

‘This is what I have been told by the Commander,’ said Marek from behind them. He was staring at the Priestess with a strange half-smile. ‘The Children still bluster and posture but they have lost their power over the Sea. Normally a display like that is enough to scare off most attackers. But today we’re going to test their threats.’ He turned to call an order. ‘Ready the mangonels!’ he called. The two ships approached; Marek waited. ‘Fire!’ he bellowed.

The mangonels groaned and thrummed as they released their lethal load of red-hot metal. On the Children’s ship men screamed.

‘Reload!’

‘Fire!’

Men died. Fires started.

The two ships closed to attack distance. Raiders swung from ropes across the intervening water, landing on the deck with swords and knives ready
for the bloodletting. They swarmed over the defending crew with brutal efficiency, cutting men down, driving them back.

Wyn ignored the battle on the main deck, concentrating instead on the Priestess still standing in the prow playing her harp. She was watching the swarming melee in disbelief, as if seeing such a thing for the first time. So distracted was she that she failed to notice Wyn approach her.

‘Put the harp down, Priestess,’ he said.

Her eyes widened in shock as she took in his size and his sword. But her fear did not overwhelm her; instead she continued playing. She looked up at Wyn, a small smile forming.

‘Do you know this song?’ she asked calmly as she changed the tune.

Wyn frowned as he listened. It was familiar, one he had heard a long time ago. Suddenly it came back to him and he raised his sword to threaten the Priestess. ‘Don’t do this, Priestess,’ he said. ‘Our vessels are too close together. Neither will survive this.’

‘So you do recognise the song. I thought you would, Wyn. I remember telling you about it.’ She placed her hand on the strings, stilling their song.

He stopped in shock, his sword wavering. ‘Audra?’ he asked uncertainly.

‘You remember me,’ she said, smiling. A particularly loud scream of pain from the wild scene behind him made Wyn suddenly remember what was going on. He raised his sword again.

‘I still can’t let you sing that song,’ he said.

‘No. I am sorry, Wyn. I won’t allow you to interfere with what is happening.’

‘Even if it means we both die?’

‘Even if everyone on both ships perishes. I cannot let the Southern Raiders take this vessel.’ She lowered her head briefly to place her hand on the strings, preparing to play once more. Wyn took a step forward, close enough to rest the point of his sword on the harp. Audra’s head snapped up in surprise. ‘Would you kill me? One of your own people?’

Wyn did not answer; he let his hard stare do the talking for him. He knew his eyes could be intimidating, for he had stared down opponents before. Audra held his eye, but all the while her fingers caressed the strings, summoning disaster upon them all.

‘I warned you, Audra,’ said Wyn harshly. ‘If you do not stop playing I will have to make you.’

She raised her chin defiantly. ‘Then you will have to force me. For the Raiders will not prevail here.’

As he looked at a woman whom he had known when they were both children, he knew he could not simply kill her. The answer was simple when he thought about it. With a quick flick of his wrist, he slashed at the strings of the harp. There was a single despairing tone, like a sigh, and the strings parted. Audra screamed in anger. She wrenched the harp away from Wyn’s sword and threw it at him. He stepped aside easily, watching the ruined instrument spin past him. But as he did so, his sword point shifted.

Audra lunged, throwing herself at him, her hands outstretched to gouge at his eyes. Her sudden movement surprised him and he reacted instinctively, swinging his sword around to face the threat. She gasped in pained shock as the blade slid easily into
her. He stood watching in disbelief as she slowly sank to her knees, her blood staining both her robes and the deck.

Audra died.

As if this were some kind of signal, the fight seemed to go out of the rest of the crew. Within minutes they were subdued and the Raiders took possession of the ship.

The
Merial
was a trim ship. She was fast, sat well in the water, if a little low for Wyn’s taste, but she had a cargo hold full of valuable items. There were spices, fine silks, raw timber, grain and seed and even a small cache of gemstones. But even more interesting, there was a prisoner.

He was chained to the wall inside a small room deep in the hold. From the look of him he had been there for some time. When he was dragged out of his cell to face Marek, the prisoner cringed in the sunlight. The surviving crew of the
Merial
were hustled below to await Marek’s pleasure, while the Raiders gathered around to watch the outcome of this meeting.

‘So,’ said Marek. ‘An enemy of our enemy. By rights, a friend of ours. What say you? Friend of the Southern Raiders or not?’

The man dragged himself up to his full height to look Marek boldly in the eye. ‘I am Nolin, Navigator of the First Rank. A Child of Danan.’ A strange half-smile crossed his face. ‘And yes, I am a friend to the Southern Raiders.’

‘A Navigator, eh?’ said Marek. ‘Never met a Navigator before. I hear they are highly regarded among the Children.’

Nolin nodded. ‘We are indeed.’

‘So I find myself asking why one so highly regarded would be so badly treated by his own people.’

At this, Nolin laughed out loud. ‘Ask away, Captain. But I will not tell any but your Commander.’

At his insolence, Marek surged forward, sweeping his sword from its scabbard. It came to rest lightly, touching the Navigator’s throat. ‘I command here,’ he hissed.

Nolin did not waver or flinch as he stared back along the glinting steel. ‘I am not referring to this vessel, Captain,’ he said. ‘And I meant no disrespect. Anyone who can run down and take the
Merial
is worthy of regard. I meant the man who calls himself Commander. The leader of your people.’

Marek calmed himself, resheathing his sword. ‘What do you know of the Commander?’ he asked.

The Navigator shook his head. ‘Why wouldn’t I know of him? He sails our Sea.’

‘And that is why you will lose it,’ said Marek. The Raiders murmured their agreement. ‘It is this arrogance that will cost you dearly. It is no longer your realm.’

‘How little you know,’ responded Nolin. ‘And I will tell your Commander some of what you do not yet know when I meet him at the next moon by the Wrested Archipelago.’ He paused, eyebrows raised, as he regarded Marek. ‘Those are your orders, aren’t they? To “scour the seas in search of the Children” before “meeting at the second moon by the Wrested Archipelago to mount the final campaign against the Children”?’

Marek’s face was a study of conflicting emotions: part fury, part surprise, part burning curiosity. Instead of replying, he merely nodded for the Navigator to continue.

‘There are things afoot within the Children that your Commander needs to know about, and it is because of my desire to tell him that I found myself in my recent predicament.’

Marek looked beyond the Navigator to seek out a face in his own crew. ‘Wyn,’ he called.

Wyn stepped forward. ‘Captain?’

‘That Priestess you killed. What was it she said?’

Ignoring the Navigator’s hard stare, Wyn focused on Marek. ‘She said she was willing to sacrifice both vessels and all hands to prevent our capturing the
Merial
.’

‘I guess that shows us how keen she was for you not to tell us what you know,’ the Captain said to Nolin.

The Navigator smiled. ‘It’s nice to be needed,’ he said.

‘Speaking of being needed,’ said Marek. ‘I assume you know where the Wrested Archipelago is?’

Nolin grinned as he nodded.

‘Sacchin?’ called Marek.

‘Yes, Captain,’ said the big islander as he stepped forward.

‘How do you feel about having a Navigator, First Rank, as a First Officer?’

‘Sounds good, Sir.’

‘Good. You now command the
Merial
. Select enough men for a skeleton crew and take this Navigator to the Wrested Archipelago as fast as you can sail.’

Sacchin’s grin was like the sun rising. He turned to Wyn. ‘What do you say, friend Wyn? Care for a sail under a one-eyed islander?’

‘Any day, friend Sacchin.’

With a skeleton crew and a Navigator of the First Rank at the helm, the
Merial,
relieved of her cargo, fairly flew over the water. They sprang away from the
Gretchen
like a hungry caruda, leaving a creaming wake behind them. Sacchin’s grin did not fade for three days.

Nolin was a man of almost supernatural skill. He could, it seemed, read the water. He never missed a gust, never caught a squall. At his hands, the
Merial
seemed to come alive, eager to do his bidding, keen to please him. Wyn had forgotten how skilled the Navigators were, how little he really knew about the Sea and sailing her. Similarly, the rest of the crew, hardy seamen and experienced sailors all, seemed almost in awe of Nolin. By the end of the first day, they hung off his every word, nodding sagely at his merest utterance, as keen as the
Merial
to do his every whim. It became the most harmonious vessel Wyn had ever known.

They had been underway for six days before Wyn found himself on watch alone with Nolin. It was the midnight watch on a perfect night. The stars were brilliant, glittering gems embedded in the velvet of the infinite sky, shining down on a placid sea. They stood on the quiet deck, comfortable in the silence of the night. Behind them the only other awake crewman onboard stood at the tiller, holding steady the southerly course that would take them to the Wrested Archipelago.

‘I’ve been watching you, Wyn,’ Nolin said. ‘You don’t like me, do you?’

‘Not particularly,’ Wyn replied.

‘Why not?’

Wyn shrugged, partly to deflect the question, partly to hide his discomfort. He had never met Nolin, but his memories of the arrogant Navigators who directed the Rafts were not kind. He knew he blamed them for taking his only real friend away from him, all the time knowing how pointless his blame was.

‘We have never met, I know,’ said Nolin. ‘But I have a perfect memory for faces, and you remind me of someone.’

‘That’s not my problem.’

‘No it isn’t. But I have a feeling that you could become mine.’

‘How so?’

‘I don’t know.’

Wyn grunted, turning away from him slightly, indicating the end of the conversation, but Nolin was persistent.

‘Indulge me,’ he said. ‘Tell me where you are from. Perhaps our paths have crossed somehow.’

‘Not likely. You have that perfect memory, remember?’

‘That’s what I was meaning. There is something about you. Talk to me, I crave conversation.’

Wyn shook his head. ‘Talk to yourself if you need conversation.’

‘Very well then,’ agreed Nolin. ‘But remember you asked me to.’ He grasped the railing with both hands and leaned far out over the edge, staring deep into the black water. ‘My people, the Children of Danan, are an
ancient and noble people. We are steeped in mystery and power, some would say lost in it. For millennia we ruled the waters unchallenged. Our love for the Sea, our ability to summon her to aid us, was legendary.

‘But for all our history, there was also fact. We really could call upon the might of the Sea and She would answer us. Of course, this made us terrifying opponents in battle. None could ever defeat us, for we could call down mighty storms upon their puny fleets.’ He stood up, laughing quietly. ‘Sometimes I think I should have been a bard,’ he said. ‘Without even trying I slip into the language of the bard. But our history is the subject of many stories. Most of them are even true.’

‘You weren’t particularly terrifying opponents for us the other day,’ observed Wyn.

‘And there you point out the reason why I was in chains,’ said Nolin. ‘Whilst our power over the Sea remains considerable, many of her ways are lost to us now. We have forsaken our old ways and turned our backs on the ancient teachings.’

‘That was silly,’ said Wyn.

‘Silly,’ Nolin mused. ‘What a quaint way to describe the utter destruction of an ancient civilisation. Silly.’ He fell silent and gazed out at the waters again. ‘No, it wasn’t silly. It was evil and malicious.’

‘Now who’s being quaint?’

‘How else would you describe the deliberate and calculated dismantling of a whole culture over two generations by a mother and daughter who had eyes only for themselves and their own power?’