Perilous Seas (8 page)

And
for being so stupid! He had known that Darad would always be a danger-Darad and
Andor and the rest of the fivebut he had thought he could shelter in Durthing,
guarded by a few hundred jotnar. Had he used the wits he was born with, he’d
have guessed that Darad might enlist some jotnar of his own. So Rap had brought
down the full horrors of a Nordland thane on the settlement, and for that evil
he deserved. more punishment than even the Gods could decree.

Whining
was not going to help, and telling his word would mean instant drowning. He
wasn’t ready for that yet, not quite. So he gave Darad a very obscene
instruction he had learned from Gathmor. The resulting punches knocked him out
for a while, and that was an improvement.

Piety
nor wit:

The
moving Finger writes;

and,
having writ, Moves on;

nor
all your Piety nor Wit

Shall
lure it back to cancel half a Line,

Nor
all your Tears wash out a Word of it.

Fitzgerald,
Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

Where are you
roaming?

“Nod
if you’re awake,” said a whisper in his ear.

Only
pain was convincing Rap that he was even alive, but he nodded slightly.

“Can
you get free?” Gathmor really didn’t need to whisper when the storm
still howled in the rigging and every rope and spar and strake on Blood Wave
was screaming in the torment of the monstrous waves. In any case, the raiders
had apparently forgotten their captives altogether.

Rap
shook his head. Seawater blew in his face. “How long’ve we been
here?”

“About
two days, by the stubble on your chin.”

Gathmor
was deathly pale, his hair matted with old blood. The crazy look in his eye
might have worried Rap had there been anything left in the world that could
worry Rap.

“Did
they fight?”

Rap
nodded. He’d heard snippets of the bragging; he’d seen the
bloodstained axes being cleaned and resharpened. He’d even recognized
some items among the pitiful handfuls of loot that had been thrown aboard and
now lay scattered around in the bilge: brooches and trinkets.

Gathmor
let out a long sigh and closed his eyes. He’d doted on his three sons,
and he’d shown his wife as much affection in public as a jotunn ever did.
His beloved Stormdancer would be a heap of ashes on the beach by now.

“I
think they’re leaving us here to die,” Rap croaked. The sailor
shook his head. “Just softening us up. “

Rap
fell silent, frightened he might start to sob. He was so weak! Courage or
stubbornness were easier to fake when a man had his strength, but days and
nights in bonds, thirst, hunger, cold, pain-he could feel them sapping his
will. A man had far more trouble being strong in spirit when his body had been
so badly damaged. And uncertainty helped, too. Call that fear.

Farsight
made the ordeal worse. Every roll to port and his ribs were ground against a
lumpy sack-but those lumps were stoneware flagons of wine. He could even read
the labels. Rolls to starboard brought a heavy keg thumping against his kneeand
he knew it contained salt beef. Most of the baggage on Blood Wave was loot:
gold and jewels and finery, stuffed in bags and jammed into odd corners, much
of it broken or ruined already; but within his reach, were he not bound, there
was food and drink aplenty.

He
could also watch every mouthful as the raiders feasted and drank. They ate
well. Even at the height of the storm, when he expected Blood Wave to founder
at any minute, the mariners went calmly about their business and pleasure. To
display fear or even reasonable doubts would be unjotunnish and probably a
capital offense on this ship.

If
softening him up was what Kalkor intended, then Rap thought he would make a
very fine feather mattress already.

Dark
and cold . . . Splash after splash after splash of salt water ... Rain,
sometimes, which helped.

Being
rolled to and fro on a rock pile until half his bones felt raw.

Thirst,
monstrous torments of thirst. A boot in the ribs if he called out.

You
volunteered for this voyage, Pea-brain! Did you expect the luxury cabin?

Hunger.
Cold. Thirst. Fouling his own clothes. Thirst. Cold. Cramps like hot coals.

Gathmor,
whispering: “Why’d you interfere? If you knew it was Kalkor, why
not just get the Evil out of there?”

“I
knew he’d come to Durthing to find me.”

“And
you thought he might be satisfied? Spare the town?”

“Maybe.
“

“Feeling
guilty for bringing bad luck?”

“Maybe.
And you? Your reason?”

“The
same.”

Thirst.
Splash. Roll. Cold. Dark ...

A
punch or two whenever Darad went by. Testing for softness. Gathmor again: “So
Kalkor has a seer now. You’ll be his eyes?”

“No!
“

Truly,
Master Rap? Suppose he made you an offer right now, . Master Rap? Pilot for an
orca-easy work for a seer. Just guide the death and rape up the river by night,
Master Rap. Outflank the guards. Locate the hidden treasures: gold below the
bricks, virgins in the attic. Good pay-all the booty you can carry, all the
women you can catch. Will you accept that offer, or stay where you are, Master
Rap?

Take
all the time you need to think about it.

Kill
yourself, Master Rap? You’re not man enough. Do it later, when you feel
better?

Cold.
Thirst. Delirium starting. Inos on a horse. Darad and Inos. Andor. Bright Water
the mad witch.

They’re
eating again. Drinking again. Splash after splash . . .

Blood
Wave was a lower, longer, sleeker vessel than Stormdancer and yet she was still
only an open boat, for there were no unnecessary luxuries like cabins on an
orca longship. One small triangle of deck at the stern supported the
helmsmen-the steering oar needed two men or more in this weather, and if the
wind ever caught Blood Wave broadside she would be on her beam ends instantly.
Below that tiny deck was the only relatively sheltered spot on board. There
Thane Kalkor hung his hammock. He had a chair there, also, a throne, and when
awake he sat in bored glory, rarely speaking to anyone, waiting for better
killing weather.

The
sailors bailed, prepared food, tended weapons, but mostly they just lounged
about, being idle. The storm would take them somewhere and they had no say in
where; rowing was impossible in weather like this. There might be rocks dead
ahead, but jotnar would never admit to fear.

Despite
the howling wind and thrashing rain, few wore more clothing than leather
breeches. Their beards and hair flew wild in the breeze, or clung in soaked
tangles of silver or gold or even copper. There was a manic, ruthless quality
in their appearance, an animal ferocity that would have persuaded Rap to
believe their reputation even without the evidence of the cargo. Their
conversations were ravings of nightmare. He would accept any story told of such
men. They competed in cruelty and sought to outdo each other in atrocities. To
them compassion would be worse than cowardice. Brutality was their creed and
their ambition.

He
had no doubt that they had killed everyone they had managed to catch in
Durthing-women, children, even the harmless little gnomes, for he had overheard
jokes about the problem of cleaning gnome off an ax.

And
it worked! Kalkor had lost only one man in Durthing, the one Brual had taken,
yet there had been more than enough able fighters in the settlement to put up a
resistance. They could have driven the raiders off with rocks, or at least have
made them pay for their sport; but instead they had crumpled before the orca
reputation and thus themselves become part of the legend. Atrocity fed on
itself.

But
who was Rap to judge? Only Kalkor’s arrival had stopped him from beating
Ogi to a pulp-squat Ogi, who had probably truly believed he was doing a friend
a favor by setting up a match for him, while at the same time enriching himself
by backing a dark horse. Typical imp! Rap had not lost control of his temper
since he was thirteen, the time he broke Gith’s jaw, but the madness was
still there underneath. He had been going to maim Ogi, and only chance had
stopped him. Kalkor felt that way more often, perhaps, but Rap was of the same
jotunn blood.

He
was in the same boat.

And
now maybe one of the crew.

Strong
hands dragged Rap out of his cramped corner and untied his bonds. He was so
numb that he could not clasp the beaker he was offered, so it was held to his
lips by a fleece-bearded blond giant who looked no older than himself, and who
so much resembled Rap’s old friend Kratharkran that at first he thought
he was hallucinating. But Kratharkran must be safely home in Krasnegar, earning
an honest living; this young jotunn was a killer, and his attitude to the foul
and stinking captive was one of understandable dislike.

Fortunately
there was still no shortage of fresh air, although the storm was waning. The
sky had brightened, and Rap could have seen with his eyes almost as well now as
he could without them, except that both his eyes were swollen mostly shut,
thanks to Darad’s little chats. The waves had not subsided, though, and
might not do so for days. Fresh air and rain, and cold. He was almost too weak
to shiver.

“Thane
wants you,” said the young colossus, with the same unexpectedly
high-pitched voice as Kratharkran. “Can you walk?”

Rap
shook his head, and even that was an effort. The water had added nausea to his
pains; he should have drunk more slowly. Apparently he was not going to be fed
yet, but he didn’t care overmuch at the moment.

The
sailor rose, took hold of Rap’s feet, and headed aft, dragging him along
the narrow central gangway between the rowers’ benches. Unfortunately the
oars were stored there when not in use, and the narrow walk space remaining was
wide enough for a boot, but not a man’s shoulders. He bounced on blades
and counterweights. The first half of the journey was downhill, the second half
up, as Blood Wave continued her trek over the graygreen ranges of the Summer
Seas. Arriving at the stern, the gangling raider dropped Rap’s feet,
hauled him up by the shoulders, and adjusted him so he was half kneeling, half
sitting on the planks.

“Thanks,
Vurjuk,” Kalkor said. “Be sure and wash your hands now.”

“Aye,
sir!” The young raider grinned and stalked away, swaying in easy balance
as the ship tilted its bow to the sky again.

Rap
could not even control his whirling, reeling mind, let alone his despicably
useless body. He slumped on the planks before the thane’s bare feet like
a dog, or a heap of refuse. He wanted to stand up like a man, and his
contemptible muscles refused to obey his commands. They would do nothing but
shiver. His hands were starting to throb painfully.

Lording
above him on his throne, Kalkor reached out one horny foot and nudged Rap’s
head up, so he could study the ruins.

“Darad?”

“Aye,
sir. “

“It’s
enough to spoil a man’s lunch.” Kalkor pushed the offending face
down again, still using his foot.

The
thane’s private kennel was crammed with sacks and bales, which Rap had
long since inspected and judged to contain the choicest loot. The overhead deck
was too low for a man of any of the large races to stand upright; indeed it had
not even been high enough for Thane Kalkor’s chair.

Once
that chair must have belonged to a king, or perhaps a bishop. It was big and
intricately carved, inset with jewels and enamels and filigree of gold. It was
padded in fine scarlet velvet. But the tall back had been shortened with an ax
to fit under the low headroom, and now half the jewels were gone and the velvet
was stained and rotted by salt water. Even the legs were splintered where the
chair had been spiked to the deck to stop it sliding around.

Now
the throne belonged to a half-naked jotunn pirate, who was lounging back in it
and regarding with wry amusement the wretched near-corpse that had just been
dumped at his feet. He was exactly as Rap had seen him in the magic casement:
big and young, powerful in every way imaginable. His hair was the color of
white gold, hanging heavily like plate; his eyebrows were white seagulls’
wings of irony on his bronzed face, a face of hard, angular beauty and diabolic
cruelty. Unlike the rest of the men aboard, he wore no tattoos.

His
eyes were the most intensely blue eyes Rap had ever met. They burned like
fragments of sky, full of cold and deadly fire. They smiled with the joy of
madness. Lesser jotnar, like Gathmor, might rouse themselves to killer frenzy.
Kalkor would never lose it.

And
this notorious killer Kalkor, Thane of Gark, was a distant relative of Queen
Inosolan and supposedly holder of a word of power handed down from their remote
common ancestor, the sorcerer Inisso.

“You
are Rap.”

“Aye,
sir.” It hurt to speak. It might hurt much more not to. “I have
some questions,” Kalkor said. He was shouting, as Blood Wave balanced
momentarily on a high green crest, and the wind shrieked in the rigging,
hurling a stinging salt spray with the rain. Even his covered nook did not keep
him dry. “You will answer them truthfully. “ Blood Wave pitched her
bow down and began the long slide into the next valley.

Rap
nodded and almost fell over backward. He managed another “Aye, sir.”
It was quieter in the troughs, so he needn’t shout.

Then
a sudden shadow, and he looked up with farsight. The troll-like Darad loomed
over him, scowling monstrously. He was stooping to see in under the helmsman’s
deck, steadying himself against the edge with one giant furry paw. The hair on
his shoulders stirred in the wind like ripe barley.

Kalkor’s
attention left Rap and fixed itself on the newcomer with no change in its
disdain.