‘What's happening?’
Stoop adjusted his leather cap of a helmet, scratched his grey fringe of bristles. ‘Negotiations, Kyle. Shimmer's negotiating in the city to hire ships.’ The old saboteur pinched something between his nails, grimaced. ‘Tell me, lad. How do you feel about swimming?’
‘It's not natural for people to go into water.’
‘Well, now's a fine time for you to learn.’
Over the next week Kyle joined some forty male and female recruits being forcefully dunked in the muddy water of one of the broader channels of the River Thin's delta. Veteran Guardsmen enforced the lessons and swung truncheons to quiet all rebellion. Kyle sometimes saw Stoop sitting on the shore, smoking his pipe and shouting his encouragement.
From the first day of practice Kyle witnessed another duty of the Guardsmen keeping a close eye upon them when a shout went up and crossbow bolts hissed into the dark water. Immediately, the surface foamed and a great long beast thrashed and writhed, snapping its jaws and lashing its scaled tail. All the swimmers flailed for the shore. After the beast sank below the surface those same soldiers used truncheons to beat the recruits back into the water. Three youths refused entirely, were beaten unconscious and dragged away.
For his part, Kyle decided not to go meekly. When a Guardsman came to force him into the muddy channel he surprised her, a female veteran from Genabackis named Jaris. Together they tumbled down the slick mud slope into the water. From the shore and the shallows the mercenaries laughed and hooted while Kyle and Jaris thrashed in the murky water. He was lucky and managed to get behind her, hook his elbow under her chin, and he thought he might just force her to take his place as a swimmer. While he strained to push her head down below the water, something sharp and cold pricked his crotch. He jerked, strained to climb higher on his toes.
That's right, boy, ‘laughed Jaris. There's another biter in the water and it's after your little fish.’ The point pricked Kyle's crotch again. ‘What'll it be? You want to get bit?’
Kyle released her and she backed away through the waist-deep water. She raised a particularly wicked-looking dagger. ‘Smart choice. And a stupid move, lad. There's others who would've knifed you just for gettin’ them wet.’
Eventually, Kyle was selected as part of a troop and was given floats of tarred inflated skins to hang on to and paddle around for hours at a time in the river. Guardsmen kept watch on shore and in the tall grasses of the marsh.
The second role of the many Guards Kyle discovered on the eighth day when shouts went up from the shore of a mud island out in the channel and mercenaries came running from all around. They splashed through the murky shallows, dived into the tall stands of grasses. Kyle and the other swimmers stopped to watch.
A boy in a ragged tunic appeared, flushed from the grasses and cattails. He ran down the clay shore of the channel island, barefoot, wild-eyed. A Guardsman jumped from the cover of the grasses and tackled the youth into the water. Both disappeared beneath the brown surface. Kyle swam for them as fast as he could.
The mercenary surfaced, dragged a limp shape to the shore. Kyle arrived to see the thick red of heart's blood smearing the mud and the youth's chest. The Guardsman was the short veteran, Boll, whom Stoop had warned him to stay clear of. Despite this, Kyle charged in sloshing through the shallow water. He raised the boy's head – a bare youth – and dead.
‘What did you have to kill him for?’
The veteran ignored Kyle, began cleaning and re-oiling his knife blade.
‘He's just a kid. Why did you?’
‘Shut up. Orders. No spying allowed.’
‘Spying?’ Kyle couldn't believe what he was hearing. ‘Spying?
Maybe he was just watching. Maybe he was just curious. Who wouldn't be?’
‘You watch your mouth. I don't play nice like that Genabackan cow, Jaris.’
Kyle almost jumped the squat knifeman – from some place called Ehrlitan, he'd heard – but Boll still held his blade while Kyle held only his ridiculous goatskin bladder. He raised the bladder. ‘You and this thing are a lot alike, Boll. You're both puffed up.’ Kyle pried at a tarred seam of the bladder until the air farted out in a stream. ‘And you both make a lot of loud noise.’
Boll slapped the bladder from Kyle's hands. ‘Don't ride me. This ain't a game.’
Other Guardsmen arrived then and waved Kyle away. He went to find a replacement bladder. The mercenaries dragged the body into the thick stands of marsh grasses.
*
The next week Kyle was kicked awake in the middle of the night. He squinted into the blackness of a moonless night barely able to make out someone standing over him.
‘Get up. Assemble at the beach. Double-time.’
It was Trench, his sergeant. ‘Aye, aye.’
He collected his armour and equipment by the dim glow of a fire's embers then stumbled down to the beach to find a mixture of recruits and veteran Guardsmen assembled in knots. Trench, wearing only pantaloons and a vest of leather, shook all of his equipment from his hands.
‘Won't be needing that.’
Trench moved on to the other recruits. Stalker appeared at Kyle's side, knelt with him to sort through his gear.
‘Take the knife,’ he whispered. ‘Keep it at your neck.’ He examined Kyle's mishmash of armour. ‘Wear the leather alone – no padding – and the skirting's OK. Go barefoot.’
‘What's going on?’
‘We're swimming out to the ships. I hear negotiations have gone sour.’
Kyle pulled on his leathers. ‘Gone sour? Looks like this has been in the works for some time.’
‘An option. Shimmer seems cunning. I'll give her that.’
Squinting out over the water, Kyle could see nothing. The Narrows were calm and smooth, not a breath of air stirred, but it was as dark as the inside of a cave. ‘I can't see a damned thing.’
‘Don't you worry. There'll be plenty of light.’
Kyle hefted his tulwar – more than a stone's weight of iron.
‘Don't take it,’ Stalker said.
‘I want to take it.’
‘Then at least get rid of the blasted sheath. Hang it on a strap over your neck. If it looks like you can't make it – cut it loose.’
‘I'll never part with this.’
A spasm of irritation crossed Stalker's brow. ‘Dark Hunter take you! It's your burial.’
The tall scout stormed away. Kyle found the bladders in baskets. Men and women were strapping them to their chests. He hung the freshly re-gripped tulwar by a leather strap at its hilts and ran the strap under one shoulder and up around his neck. Mercenaries pushed out past him into the placid, nearly motionless surf.
‘Where are we going?’ Kyle asked them.
‘Quiet,’ someone hissed.
‘Hood take your tongue.’
Kyle bit back a retort. He joined the ranks of almost naked men and women pushing out into the water.
The water was cold, terrifyingly so. Kyle felt his toes and fingers already tingling. What use might he be when he eventually reached a ship, too numb to swing a weapon? Had anyone thought of that?
He pulled up short as the water reached his waist. He turned to speak to someone – anyone – but was pushed on.
‘Let's go.’
‘Ain't got much time.’
‘Time till what?’ he hissed.
A hand like a shovel took him by his hauberk and pushed him along. He spun to see the wide shape of Greymane in the dark. Kyle had never seen him without his mail and banded armour, and out of it the man was, if anything, even more impressive. His chest was massive, covered in a pelt of grey hair plastered down by water. Black hair covered his thick arms.
‘Swim to the fourth ship,’ he rumbled to Kyle, and shook him by his hauberk.
‘Fourth?’
‘The fourth most distant, lad.’
‘Oh, right. Yes. What about the cold?’
The renegade blinked, puzzled. ‘What cold?’
Wind preserve him! ‘What ship are you heading to?’
‘Ship? Treach's teeth, I'm not going.’
‘You're not?’
‘No. Water ‘n’ me – we don't get along.’
The renegade pushed Kyle on before he could wonder whether he was being serious or not. He swam, kicked with his legs in a steady rhythm as he had been taught. He hugged the bladder to his chest, but didn't squeeze it, kept his arms and legs as loose as possible, conserving his strength. Soon he was surrounded by shapeless night. The stars shone overhead and from all around, reflecting from the bay's eerily still surface. Men kicked and splashed. Curses and gasps sounded from all sides. Squinting ahead, Kyle could see no sign of ships, the first let alone the fourth.
He kicked and kicked. The cold seeped up his legs and arms in a gathering numbness. He wondered if he was swimming in circles; how would he know? How could any of them know? Yet he lacked the strength to call out. His teeth chattered and his shoulders cramped.
From the middle distance shouting reached him. A cry for help, a plea. A recruit: the voice was a youth's. He had panicked, or was cramped. Splashing sounded followed by a sharp gasp, then, terrifyingly, a long silence. Kyle stopped kicking. He floated, listening to the night. Gods all around! What kind of a brotherhood had he entered into? Did they … could they have killed one of their own?
Someone bumped him and he flinched, the bladder almost slipped from his grasp like a greased pig and he nearly screamed, No!
‘Get a move on.’
Kyle didn't know the voice, though he recognized the accent: north Genabackan. ‘Can't see a damned thing,’ he gasped.
‘Never mind. Keep moving. Keep warm.’
Kyle couldn't argue with that. The dark form swam past. Kyle kicked himself into motion and tried to keep the Guardsman in sight.
The cold took his legs. At least that was how it felt; the water's frigid grasp had somehow cut him off at the waist. He still kicked but he could no longer feel his legs. His arms were likewise numb wrappings clasped around the bladder at his chest. The sword's weight pulling on his left threatened to swamp him. His teeth chattered continuously and so loudly he was sure he would be next to be pushed under the surface.
‘Close now,’ someone whispered behind. Kyle could only grunt an acknowledgement. ‘Right,’ the voice warned.
‘The fourth ship?’ he stammered.
‘Hood kiss that. It's a ship ain't it? Take it! Sharpish, turn. There, reach up.’
Kyle raised his numb arm, found slimy cold timbers. ‘How … ?’
‘A rope ladder ahead.’
He bumped his way forward and managed to entangle his arm in the ladder and slowly, laboriously, dragged himself up the first few wood rungs. Hands from above heaved him up the rest of the way and he lay on the warm deck gasping. There's another – help him.’
The dark shape peered down over the side. ‘There's no one there,’ and the man padded off silent.
The ship had already been taken. Kyle warmed himself at coals simmering in an iron brazier at mid-deck. Two Guardsmen hurried about, clearing the ship's deck. ‘We're leaving now?’ Kyle asked of one.
This one paused, eyed him up and down. ‘A new hand, hey?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who swore you in?’
‘Stoop.’
This fellow nodded, impressed by the name. Kyle wondered what could possibly be impressive about the broken-down one-handed saboteur.
‘Know ships?’
‘No.’
Then you are now officially a marine. Scrounge armour and weapons – especially missile weapons. Ready for blockade.’
‘Blockade?’
‘Aye. We'll need all their ships.’
Kyle forced down a laugh of disbelief. ‘But that's an entire city!’
The Guardsman's smile shone bright in the dark. ‘Just their best ships then.’ The smile disappeared. ‘Below, collect equipment.’
‘Yes sir.’
Kyle expected blood-spattered slaughter belowdecks and so descended the set of steep stairs slowly. But what he found disturbed him in a far worse way; all the holds and bunk-lined ways he explored he found completely empty. Not one person, dead or alive. Where was everyone? What had happened? He could find no arms or armour anywhere.
The rattling of metal sounded from sternward. Kyle readied his tulwar and edged forward. The narrow corridor ended at a room cramped by benches and tables. An open door led further to the stern. The noise of metal rattling continued. Kyle peeked in to see the back of a man, barefoot, in a wet shirt and trousers, struggling with a closed and chained cabinet door.
‘Wait a moment,’ the man said in Talian without turning around. Kyle wondered how he could have possibly known he was here. The noise of the vessel's rocking and creaking had covered his approach, he was sure.
‘Aye.’
More rattling, then the chains fell from the door. ‘Ha!’ The man pulled open the metal-bolted and barred door. Kyle glimpsed racks of spears and bows and swords within.
‘Help me bring these up.’
‘Where is everyone? The crew, I mean.’
The Guardsman began unlocking the racks. Kyle now saw that he carried an immense ring of keys. ‘Merchants,’ the man sighed. ‘They want weapons locked away yet they expect to be protected at all times.’ His thick black hair, hacked short, shone like wet fur and the lines of his face appeared ready to creep up into a constant grin. ‘The crew? Just a skeleton watch. Some fought, some dived overboard.’
‘What's the plan?’
The man stopped short, gave an exaggerated frown then returned to his grin. ‘The plan? Ah, you're a new hand. Capture the ships.’
‘Right. Capture ships.’
Thunder rolled over and through the vessel, a burst from the middle distance. Kyle frowned, puzzled – it was a clear night. The Guardsman's grin turned eager. ‘It's started. Let's go.’ He collected an armful of weapons.
A faint orange glow flickered over the deck. Flames now engulfed the Kurzan waterfront. While Kyle watched, a fresh burst of yellow and white flame rocked one harbour tower. It hunched, then, with an awful slow grace, toppled sideways, flattening as it went. More thunder rolled up the inlet.
‘Something's got Smoky all in a froth,’ murmured the Guardsman.
‘What about the ships?’
‘Naw. Don't worry about them. Cowl would murder him.’
‘They're on their way!’ someone shouted from the bows.
The Guardsman laughed. ‘You see? All they needed was a little encouragement.’
‘And just what do we do when they get here?’ Kyle asked.
Surprised, the mercenary looked to Kyle. ‘Sorry. I keep forgetting. It's hard for us old-timers. My name is Cole. You?’
‘Kyle. Are you – Avowed?’
‘Yes.’ Cole gestured to two others with him. ‘I'll hold the deck. You two flank me. You,’ he pointed to Kyle, ‘can you use a bow?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Get up on the foredeck with the man there – follow his orders.’
‘Aye, aye.’ Kyle gathered all the arrow sheaths he could hold.
The man at the raised bow deck was pale, skinny and obviously freezing cold as he stood in a soaked linen shirt and hide trousers hugging himself and stamping his feet.
‘You an archer?’ the Guardsman asked Kyle in accented Talian.
‘I can shoot.’
‘OK. Try out those. Find one you like.’
Kyle strung one bow, took a test shot out into the darkness. Weak, he judged, but true. ‘What's the plan?’
‘I'll pick out targets. You hit them.’
‘OK.’ To get a better feel for the bow, Kyle shot more arrows into the dark.
‘You a local recruit?’ the man asked.
‘Yes. Kyle. You?’
‘Parsell, Lurgman Parsell. Genabackis.’ Distracted, the man peered out over the dark waves of the inlet glimmering with reflected flames. ‘Less than one league now,’ he called to mid-ship.
‘I mark them,’ Cole answered.
Kyle squinted out over the calm waters. He could barely discern dark shapes approaching, pale lines at their bows, let alone any possible target. How was he to hit anything? ‘Ah, there's a problem. I can't see a thing.’
‘You can't—’ Lurgman sighed, pulled a leather pouch from under his shirt, took out a slip of oiled cloth. ‘There might be enough left on this, try it.’
‘What do I do with it?’
‘You rub it over your eyes. Open, mind you – they have to be open.’
‘Doesn't that hurt?’
‘Like a rasp.’
Kyle studied the parchment, dubious. ‘Do I have to?’
The thump of distant crossbows and catapults echoed across the inlet. Incendiaries shot high up into the night, arced to reveal scores of vessels bearing down upon them.
‘No choice now.’
Kyle opened one eye wide and pressed the cloth to it then flinched, snarling and cursing as acid ate at his eye. ‘Wind take you! Gods, man! Gods!’
‘The other one – quick.’
Cole roared, ‘Get rid of those two war-galleys! We don't want them.’
‘Aye, aye.’
Blinking, eyes watering, Kyle straightened to a near monochrome half-light of blindingly bright flames, searing stars in the night sky, and a clear vision of ships, all under oar, making slow progress towards them. Distantly, the clash of battle sounded as ship met ship.
Lurgman was grunting and hissing his effort, eyes shut, hands held out before him, and the hair on Kyle's neck and arms tingled as he realized he stood with a mage, possibly another Avowed.
‘Are they in range?’ Lurgman ground through clenched teeth.
The nearest vessels, two broad-bellied cargo ships, had been attempting to pass to either side of their ship. Both had lost all headway and rocked as if rudderless. The decks of both swarmed with soldiers. Kyle was surprised to see how all their oars were warped and curled – utterly useless.
‘Now, yes.’