The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (42 page)

They didn’t accost Ewan.

Since his last long chat with a disgruntled merchant who had lost his yearly profit, Ewan had met no man of importance or anyone literate enough to inform him about the perils ahead. His last news was four days old. Their supplies were running low. They were dirty and tired. Well, Constance was, at least. He was just dirty. He thought he had lice in his hair.

But he really had no choice. West, he had to go west, into Athesia and across. He was not worried of what might befall him, but Constance still traveled with him. She was every bit as vulnerable as the day they had met. She never complained, but she knew nothing about survival in the wild, let alone a war-infested country. For a young, helpless girl to be alone on the road was a death sentence, or worse. And yet she clung to him like a shadow, refusing to leave his side. Perhaps for the best, he might be the safest person to be around.

Since the sensing of a god’s death back in Shurbalen, the urgency in his belly had receded a little, but not the strain on his soul. Constance voiced no questions, but her trepidation and curiosity, mingled in a fearful blend, were obvious. She wasn’t the only one hiding secrets. Even so, she followed him. He was her savior, her one friend. And she really didn’t know what else to do.

Ewan often wondered why they hadn’t parted ways in the port city. She was smart and literate and good-looking; she could have found employment with one of the guilds. But even now, weeks away from her almost death didn’t seem far enough. She was fleeing still, in her mind. And when you were lost and you had no direction, you let the stream take you.

One day, she would have to face a harsh choice. Ewan’s path led him away from humanity, away from civilization. She could not come with him. Constance would have to decide what she wanted, what she needed. For the time being, she followed.

He was glad for the company. He dreaded the inevitable day of their parting no less than she.

They crested a small rise. Ewan slowed down. He pulled an old map from his bag; he had earned it for helping a teamster replace a wheel on his cart. The map was moldy, with grease stains that had washed away some of the letters and color, but it was still better than the memory of his last passage across Caytor.

Maybe a mile away south was the city of Monard. It was surrounded by a flock of villages, most of which employed their sons and daughters in the local merchants’ industries, flax, barley, copper mining, and fishing. What was that river called, Ewan tried to remember.

Just ahead, half hidden behind the chain of gnarly hillocks, was one of those unnamed fishing villages, a dozen houses in total and a water mill. Ewan was hoping one of the locals would be kind enough to let them wash their clothes in the watering trough. Maybe they had some lavender powder for the lice. And maybe they would spare some food.

But the water mill wheel stood still. No one moved. There was no smoke rising from the chimneys. A lone dog barked. Ewan frowned.

“Wait here,” he told Constance.

Looking around, he spotted a pear tree some distance from the road, old, fruitless, stubborn in its slow death. He dug his fingers into the blackened bark and climbed for a better view. Soon, he could see past the village. A heat mist blurred the sight slightly. Ewan spotted Monard, a dark blotch against striped, uneven fields, and its hamlets, bread crumbs on a brown, crumpled tablecloth. Farther out, he saw the sea bay. And offshore, but not too far out, a single ship anchored, black sails furled.

Pirates?

He slid down the tree and walked back to his companion. “Careful now. Not a word,” he whispered, leading her off the road, back down the crest toward a copse of stunted mulberry trees. Constance didn’t ask any questions. She obeyed.

“Stay here.” He handed her a small knife. “Defend yourself the best you can if anyone attacks.” He could not tell her to just mount the animal and ride away. She was an average rider and still too hurt to gallop. She might fall and break her neck. And if the enemy had cavalry, she would stand no chance against experienced horsemen. “Stay here,” he repeated.

She nodded and gripped the horse’s reins hard. Her eyes were big and frightened. A small clump of trees kept her shielded from view from the dirt road, but the land was wide open. He gave her a reassuring squeeze of the hand and left the track, heading for the village. A sea breeze came in soft, quick gusts, fresh and briny.

He was not sure what he would find in the village, but any supplies would be welcome. If people had abandoned the land because of these pirates, there was no point in leaving food to rot. Tools, utensils, clothes, anything would be of use. Most importantly, he needed to know if there was any danger.

Still, there was no one in sight.

He followed the lane branching off the West Road and headed into the small community. The village seemed completely empty. There was no sign of excessive violence or wanton destruction. But then, he rounded a hut.

And saw them.

Off to the side, half a dozen children were tied by their ankles with a chain and secured against a fat wooden post lodged in the ground. Guarding the children was a big fat dark-skinned pirate. He was kneeling by the girl at the end of the line and trying to lift her skirt up. Each time he reached, the girl screamed, a bloodcurdling shriek of terror. Each time, the man withdrew his hand, giggling madly. Other children just stood there, in shock.

Ewan swallowed. What now? Ignore the scene? Go back? The pirate had not seen him yet. He could sneak back. Constance and he would give the place a wide berth and head elsewhere. Perhaps avoid Monard entirely, go further inland. But their rations were down to the last crumbs. And it would only get worse. Ewan expected no food to be found easily in Athesia. The Parusite army must have seized everything. He could not count on any generosity or luck.

He leaned against a sea rock building, thinking. His mind raced. He was not afraid, just angry. What could he do? Save the children? And then what? If what the refugees told was true, there were thousands like them everywhere. He wasn’t the world’s savior, just an unfortunate monster. But he could not let the pirates have them. Back in the Eybalen docks, he had heard the stories of what the Oth Danesh did to their slaves. He might as well let the children have a merciful death.

The man’s giggle was grating on his nerves. Ewan closed his eyes. Ayrton would not let the children suffer. Taking a deep breath, Ewan left his shelter, heading toward the pirate. The man was facing away and could not hear the footsteps over the sound of his cackle and the girl’s screams.

Ewan planted his fist in the pirate’s left temple, caving his brain in. The fat man just folded like a sack of onions, his brains oozing through cracks in the bashed skull. This time, no child screamed. They all watched Ewan with huge, terrified eyes.

“Be very quiet, kids,” he whispered, trying to soothe them. He reached for the chain.

Noise.

Ewan looked around. A stone’s throw away, a pair of pirates had entered the would-be village square, an empty spot amidst the cluster of houses, riding small, shaggy ponies without saddles, talking to one another, laughing. One was leading a woman on a leash. Then, they saw their comrade leaking his life’s essence onto the muddy ground. They saw a scrawny stranger holding the chain attached to their latest prize.

The pirate without the woman let out a piercing, ululating cry and trotted away. The second released the woman and charged toward Ewan. He reached for a short, curved sword dangling at his hip.

Ewan stepped away from the children and waited. The village burst with activity. Pirates, of all shades of skin from ocher to ebony, emerged from their shelters, closing in on Ewan. Most were mounted on those small horses and rode awkwardly. Some were armed with recurve bows and were nocking them with brightly feathered arrows while trotting, a reasonable feat for seafaring people.

No salvo of death came. The pirates shouted their high-pitched war cries, but they did not attack him. Within seconds, he was encircled, a dozen blades and arrows facing him. A man was approaching from behind, holding a lead-weighted net. The Oth Danesh seemed to prefer to capture their victims, Ewan realized.

“What are you doing, landman?” one of them growled. His Continental was passable, a little slurred.

Ewan said nothing. He was thinking. Oh, he could kill them all. It would be so easy, but even now, a tiny portion of his soul felt that being able to deliver justice and delivering it were two different things completely. He could not change the world or save everyone.

“Doesn’t look like a good slave. I say we kill him,” one of them taunted. He snarled when Ewan absolutely failed to respond to his threat.

“You will let these children go,” Ewan said finally. They just laughed. Ewan stood with his arms spread, trying to shield the little ones, but it was impossible to cover all sides. The pirates were going around in circles, trying to disorient him. They did not bear with any style. They might even be drunk. But they did not look stupid. Every one of them could see their fat friend broken like a rotten fig. Ewan was unarmed, and yet his right fist dripped red.

“Landman, yield, or she dies!” someone outside the circle of riders shouted. Ewan looked behind and saw Constance.

She was being led by one of these savages, a machete pressed against her neck. The man was walking her forward in tiny steps. She seemed in shock, frozen, rigid, her skin ghostly pale. There was nothing Ewan could do to save her if they chose to slice her throat open.

More pirates showed up. Soon, there were close to thirty men around him. No two looked or dressed the same.

Ewan tried to think of a solution, one that did not end with him traveling the rest of the road alone. But he did swear that he would annihilate them all if they hurt Constance. Quickly, he recalled some of the obscure ancient customs used by mariners in Eybalen.

“I want to parley with your shipmaster,” he said. They laughed again.

“The little landman is serious, eh?” one of them hissed when they all realized Ewan knew their customs. There was nothing to stop their hand except the ingrained power of superstition. Ewan prayed these pirates were as stubborn and steadfast in their ways as Caytorean sailors.

The bows relaxed, arrows pointing down. Men sheathed their cutlasses and sabers. Their scarred, sunblasted faces bore a mixture of pure, simple, unbridled violence, disgust, and wonder.

“Take them to the ship.”

They released Constance. She walked toward him, hugged him, and sobbed against his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Ewan. I’m sorry,” she wept. He gently stroked her back, ignoring the cackles and jeers and lewd gestures around him.

“Those children stay here. And all the other prisoners. My terms,” he barked. He could not show any weakness.

One of them made a warding motion in his direction. Another cursed him in a mixture of Continental and foreign. All of the riders dismounted and closed in, trying to make him panic. He just held Constance close and let their hatred slide off him.

“You stink, landman!” Someone spat at his feet. He ignored them. “Go.” The leader of the land party pointed south, toward the shore.

An hour later, a boat carrying Ewan, Constance, and a score of pirates glided into the big ship’s shadow. Constance was not used to the pitch, and she vomited suddenly. Bile sprayed the legs of the pirate leader. He growled loudly and raised his meaty hand to backhand her. Ewan gripped his arm. The pirate bunched his muscles. They rippled in long, sinewy knots under his oily skin, but they made no progress. Ewan’s slim, nondescript arm did not even tremble.

The two of them held eye contact. Ewan smirked and let go. The pirate leader lowered his arm, snarling silently at Ewan.

They threw a rope ladder from above. “Steady now,” Ewan told Constance. She was shaking, terrified. Her left arm was still very weak. It was pale and thin and overgrown with the bristly black hair that always grew thick under casts. “Be careful.” Ewan spoke softly, trying to calm her. He climbed just behind her, supporting her. The pirates never stopped laughing or jeering.

The top deck was no better. It was crowded with a hundred unfriendly faces, none of which showed any semblance of kindness or even interest. For them, human life was just a traded commodity, like silk or fish. This cruelty stunned him. His notion of the goodness of humanity eroded a little bit more just then.

“Where’s your shipmaster?” Ewan broke the silence. He bore proudly and stared down any man challenging him. He was repulsed with what he was about to do, but there was no other way he could save Constance. The price of…friendship was hard.

“What do you want, landman?” An older man with a full silver beard that contrasted starkly with his dark, tree bark-like skin pushed forward, coming to the fore of the crowd. He was not big or as imposing as some of the other men, but the rest of the pirates made space for him.

“I want to parley. You let all your prisoners go. You let me and my wife go.” He swallowed. Constance did not seem to have noticed. “You give us a hundred gold and a week of supplies and another horse.”

The shipmaster grinned. He was missing most of his teeth. “And what do you give me in return?”

Ewan took a deep breath. “I challenge your best man to a game of Sleeper.”

A wave of cries erupted on the ship. Ewan believed no man had ever done what he just had.

“You know of Sleeper?” the shipmaster shouted.

“Yes, I do,” Ewan answered quietly.

Sleeper was a cruel game that seamen played to settle their feuds or blood insults. It was their version of a duel. And it could be played anytime, anywhere. While you could torture your prisoners any which way on a ship while offshore, you could not really do anything while berthed in a harbor. On the other hand, Sleeper was always an option.

The pirate shipmaster flicked his fingers; he was missing a pinkie. A big man joined his side. He was a large man, and he looked like an excellent swimmer. There were nine livid tattoos on his broad chest, indicating he had won nine Sleepers before. There was no tattoo for a loss; you just died.