Slow Turns The World (9 page)

 “What do they seek, Trabbir, which is worth the damage done to the earth and to the tribes who were not evil men before?”

“My simple hunter from the edge of the world,” laughed Trabbir, “can you not guess?”

“Aye,” said Torrin, “Perhaps I can; metal hewn from the ground which becomes more than metal.”

From the hidden pouch within his belt Torrin extracted one of the shiny discs he had taken from the dead man's hand.  Trabbir stared, unbelieving.

“I have heard much talk of wealth and money since I came upon this ship,” said Torrin. “It is a word the Vasagi do not use but now I understand well enough what power it has and how it is craved.”

“Hunter,” whispered Trabbir, glancing cautiously around, assuring himself that no others had seen what Torrin held. “That one coin is worth more than most of the crew will be paid for this voyage.  Hide it well, or your life upon this ship may be short.”

The wind blew stronger and more from the west; the ship began to roll and pitch as it gathered speed across the white trimmed waves.  Torrin worked aloft for the first time in high seas, the motion making him pale and sick.  The mast swung until the boiling sea lay beneath him, stayed for a moment tilted, then swept back, carrying him over the little figures working on the deck below, over the sea again, then back again.   The men struggled with lashing canvas, feet upon a single rope, bellies resting on the crossbeam.  Valhad, at Torrin’s side, laughed aloud and with every lurching sway he thrilled to the task and its danger.  

“I was born to be a better sailor than a hunter,” he shouted as they hauled in the heavy canvas.

“I thought it a blessing when the treadmills ceased,” Torrin muttered back, “but I would soon swap this labour to be back there.”

Below them, upon the upper deck, the Captain paced and often stared eastwards, while in the west the sun remained obscured.

It was not long before Torrin's wish was granted.  Shortly after, as they were rocked to sleep by the now familiar creaking, rolling motion, the alarm bell sounded and there was a confusion of rushing bodies and shouted orders.  

“All Hands!  All hands!” Came the loudest cry.   

They hurried up the narrow stairs, pushed and jostled, to come upon the deck where the rigging already swarmed with men taking in the remaining sails, while around them lines were hauled tight and belayed.   Then they were ordered below again and onto the treadmills.  Ten men usually worked within each great barrel, but now twenty squeezed shoulder to shoulder and the gearing of the cogs was changed, which made the labour harder. Trabbir worked close to Torrin and panted out an explanation.

“They can see Gradala.  We have sailed blind too far and the worst fear has come true.  Gradala to the northeast and a southwest wind blowing us towards it.  A ship that uses sail alone could not be saved but we might escape.  The Captain has turned the ship northwest and now we must test ourselves against the wind to see which is strongest.”

All the manpower of the ship was put upon the paddle.  They sweated, trudged and laboured within the creaking, turning barrels.  Aching bodies staggered from the treadmill chamber, men who could barely choose between food and sleep, who threw themselves exhausted upon the sleeping litters and seemed hardly to have closed an eye before the harsh bells rang out and summoned them away again.   As they crossed the deck between each shift a distant shoreline could be seen where angry waters foamed against jagged fingers of rock.  The ship seemed to be fixed upon the sea, balanced between the wind singing in the rigging and the churning turning of the paddle wheel.  All their agonies would be for nothing should the wind blow any stronger or if their strength should wane, but they were creeping northwards, and slowly the shoreline crept past.  

Then they saw a headland jutting out to the north, a cruel wave-battered ridge that was the westernmost point of Gradala.   The gearing changed again and the men were urged on faster within the treadmills.   They jostled and scrambled using both hands and feet upon the latticed timbers.  Any who stumbled or fell exhausted were tumbled within the barrel, some staggered back to their feet, but others were bundled and thrown from the treadmill with impatient cursing.  They would lay bruised and bleeding, but most eventually rose again and retook their place within the turning drum.

Torrin and Valhad wearily crossed the deck after completing their shift.  The headland was close now and, although the ship had driven some way against the wind, it looked most likely that it would founder on its jagged tip.  They came down into the crew’s quarters and found a gathering of men around a small carved idol.  A murmured chanting came from those assembled as modest offerings were laid before the statue.  One of the crew kneeled before the image, raised his hands in homage and spoke.

“Jilkes, God of the waters, hear your servants in this the time of our peril.  We give these offerings to you that shall be cast upon the sea.   Jilkes, lead us to calm waters.  Forgive us, that one amongst us slew the great fish; accept these offerings.”

Another of the men stepped forward and spoke out.

“It is not enough; these offerings are worth nothing.”

The kneeling man turned and rose to face the group.

“What else can we give?  What else do we have?”

“We have this,” he replied, pushing through the group to a litter where Yalu lay watching silently. Yalu, protesting noisily, was dragged by his chained ankles and laid before the image of the god of the waters.

“This has brought no service yet to the ship, but now he might.  Here is an offering that Jilkes might find worthy.”

Yalu looked desperately from face to face.

“You cannot… cannot do this,” he stammered out, “the Captain forbids such things.”

“If the ship is saved, what is the loss of one man?  And none here will say what became of you.”

Yalu tried to squirm away but several of the men held him fast and covered his mouth as a knife was drawn out and poised above his heart.

“Jilkes, God of the waters.  Accept this offering...”

“No!”  A stern voice rang out and the hand that gripped the blade was clasped hard around the wrist.  It was Valhad who had intervened and now rebuked them sternly.

“Do you really believe the wind is sent to punish you?” he demanded angrily.  “Is The Maker Of All Things so concerned with your little lives that he sets the great sea against you?   Do you not realise that the wind which blows one ship against the rocks speeds another safely home?  You are such a tiny part of all that He has made, why should it please Him if you spill the blood of one of your own?”

As the man holding the knife struggled to free it from Valhad's determined grip, he looked up into the young man’s fierce eyes.

“You do not know our ways,” he said, “or of the God of the sea.  The rocks draw near and we must make the reckoning.”

Then another voice, cruel and scathing, interrupted.

“Yes, little hunter.  Why not let them make their magic; though I doubt the blood of this scum will do for any God.” said Kalor, emerging from the shadows where he had been watching, drawing the long curved blade from its sheath as he advanced slowly towards Valhad.

“No my dear shipmates,” he said, in cold yet seductive tones, “you need a better sacrifice.  Why not this piece of flotsam we picked from the sea, perhaps he’s where the bad luck comes from?”

The tip of the sword stroked a gentle line across Valhad's chest but he returned Kalor's stare, unblinking and the smile faded from his sneering lips.

“Yes,” said Kalor, “here is the offering for your god.  But let us do it right, let us not offend him.  Say your words again.”

The silence in the chamber was only filled by the creaking of timbers, and the distant rumbling of the drum.

“Say the words, damn you!”

The chanting started again, hesitant and uncertain.  

“Jilkes, God of the waters, accept this offering….”

Kalor's eyes looked Valhad up and down, his face showing a mixture of some strange pleasure, almost a hunger, mingled with disgust as the corners of his mouth creased into a smile.  Valhad stood unflinching, looking sadly into the swordman’s eyes, as though he saw something deeply concealed; some hidden source of rage and hatred.  Kalor sensed this and his smile faltered as anger consumed him, muscles tensing for the killing thrust.  Then suddenly, Torrin’s forearm circled around Kalor's neck and jerked tightly against his throat.  He pulled Kalor back, away from Valhad, and with every sign of struggle he squeezed harder.  The sword clattered to the floor as Kalor choked and gasped.

“I say there should be no killing here,” Torrin whispered to him, “what do you say?”

Kalor clawed in vain at Torrin's forearm, trying to break free, but the grip did not falter.

“What do you say?” Torrin asked again, and Kalor, face grey, eyes bulging, managed a small nod.  Torrin released him and stepped back a pace as Kalor fell to his knees, coughing and retching.  The bowed head and gasping breath did not deceive Torrin, who was ready when Kalor lunged for the sword.  Torrin's foot came first, pinning the blade down, before his second foot struck.  He kicked Kalor hard in the face, sending him tumbling and rolling across the floor, blood squirting from his nose.  Kalor raised himself warily, wiping the blood away as he hissed a few quiet words at Torrin.

“I swear that I shall kill you.”

Then the ship’s bell rang urgently.  Those in the chamber stood in stunned silence for a moment before rushing to respond.  Torrin met Kalor’s stare then snatched up and threw the sword into a dark corner of the chamber before following the crew up to daylight.   On deck they could see the wave-lashed rocks looming close but it seemed the wind had made a shift southwards.  In a last gamble the sails were to be set and if the wind held southerly they might yet clear the treacherous point.  High above, desperate men scrambled and struggled with madly flapping canvas while Torrin and Valhad were ordered back to the treadmills to join the stumbling sweating bodies.    

With half the crew busy on the rigging there was no relief and many of the men were spent, trudging wearily onwards as the barrel turned around them.   But Torrin, hunter of the southern plains who had so often run far and fast after the galloping barak, still had strength of body and of spirit.  He rallied the men, urged them on and brought from them a final effort.   Singing the hunting songs of the Vasagi, his voice bellowed out above the noise of grinding cogs and many treading feet.  It was a song set to the beat of the hunter's feet, to the galloping hooves of the distant barak. Valhad sang with him and soon the men around them joined the chorus.  Wood and metal creaked and clattered in time to their footfalls and the rythmn of the song.  

With each passing moment the toiling men awaited other sounds; rock splintering timber and dreaded rushing water.  But it did not come.  Instead, when it seemed the agony of the treadmill had become a curse to last for all eternity, when Torrin could barely gasp another verse, a voice echoed out across the chamber.

“Stand to!  Stand to!  The ship has passed Gradala!”

The grinding and rumbling of the chamber slowed and silenced as the men staggered from the barrels and slumped heavily to the floor.  Torrin felt several hands squeeze his shoulder and pat him weakly on his back.  Raising his head he looked around at the exhausted men drenched in sweat. Valhad lifted his head and smiled.  Trabbir clenched his fist and punched the air.

The ship passed from the Carthasan Sea into the Gulf of Tixcu and ploughed on, driven by the same southwest wind that had carried it so close to destruction.   The paddle wheel was now redundant and the treadmills stood silent as breeze and sail bore them onwards.  Torrin, Valhad and Trabbir sat upon the deck at the stern and watched the wake stretching away toward the red disc of the setting sun.

“Do we know yet where we are bound?” asked Valhad.

“Eastwards, into darkness,” said Trabbir.  “Dark lands for dark deeds.”

“There may be dark deeds upon this ship before we come to shore again,” said Torrin, “Kalor made a promise to me; the only promise such a man would honour.  To kill me.”

“There is a great trouble in that man,” said Valhad, “some conflict deep inside which has made him evil.  I saw it in his eyes when he held the sword to me.  But tell us, is he free to take what life he chooses upon this ship?”  

“No, he is not,” replied Trabbir, “he must pay the Captain your value as a slave after he has killed you.”

“That is a great comfort to me, Trabbir,” said Torrin with a bitter grin.

“Unless he kills you in defence to save a few coins.  He might offer you a weapon before he slays you.  You know there are wagers on the ship for how many turns you will live?”

“So that is my doom, but what of Valhad?  He stopped the sacrifice; will the crew seek revenge?”

“He did, but then the ship passed Gradala.  Now they think him protected by a stronger God; he has become good fortune.”

Valhad sighed and shook his head.

“A stronger God?  Did they understand nothing of what I said?”

“Valhad,” said Torrin.  “I am of the Vasagi and I know our Maker Of All Things is unlike any other god that is worshipped by the tribes that we have met, but you surprised even me with your words; how did you come by this wisdom?”

“I do not know, Torrin.  It has always been within me.  I used to climb the hills above the plains and look across the world and feel these things I know are true, things that I have not yet found words for.  And here too, when I look across the waves, the truth speaks to me.  Our people believe that The Maker of All Things gave us each a little part of himself before he left, and that if we listen to the quietest voice within ourselves we shall share in his wisdom.  Sometimes the quiet voice is no longer quiet but calls loudly and it seems to speak through my lips; I become the voice and some other power talks through me.”

When their next turn of duty came all three were sent to the treadmill chamber and ordered to scrub the floor clean.  The wheels stood silent and empty in the dim wooden vault.  They opened a hatch, a doorway above the sea, close enough to the water to catch the spray as the ship rolled.  Buckets were lowered on a line to haul up seawater, then they knelt and began to scrub the planks with stiff bristled brushes.   They worked on without noticing another figure silently entering the chamber, then from the shadows feet paced purposefully towards them.  A leather boot gently nudged Torrin's bucket and tipped it over, the water spreading in a puddle around him.  He continued scrubbing the floor, not lifting his gaze.