The Faithful and the Fallen: Ruin Part 52

'Sin deireadh leis. Ar m'anam tar liom go soch-nta agus beidh t' sln. N dheanfar aon dochar duit,' Alben replied.

Maquin did not know what they were saying, but he saw Alben's gaze shift to the giant bairn, then back to the giantess.

She stood suddenly, her body hard and ridged as a slab of granite. Men behind Alben reached for their swords, but Alben did not flinch.

'Tiocfaimid, ach is eagal dom go bhfuil gealltanas tugtha agat nach feidir leat a chomhlonadh,' the giantess said.

Her voice resonated in Maquin's chest.

'Time will be the judge,' Alben said. He drew his sword and struck the chains on the post, shattering them.

'We are moving out, now.' Alben turned and strode away. The giantess and her bairn followed.

'What did you say to them?' Maquin asked.

Alben did not look at him as he marched from the tower.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE.

CORALEN.

Coralen pulled on the oar, feeling muscles contract in her back and shoulders, her torso swaying forwards and back with the motion. It had been like learning to ride all over again, the rhythm of it at first strangely alien, the dip and lift of the oar, pulling against the resistance of the Afren's dark waters, using the sway of her body to help not hinder, and on top of that, to do it in perfect time so as not to snare her oar in another rower's.

I've got it now, though.

The first night after their escape from Uthandun Corban gathered all of the oarsmen from the eleven ships they had stolen, over three hundred men. He had repeated the offer he'd made during the raid told them that they were free. He suggested that they row both for Corban and for themselves now, away from the pirates who had made them slaves, and be put ash.o.r.e at a safer location.

Some had demanded their freedom then and there. Corban had let them go, no more than a score of them, staggering into the gloom of the Darkwood. The rest had stayed.

Many were close to death, weak and emaciated, but Coralen had been surprised to see the effect a mouthful of brot had upon most of them.

Corban had asked one other thing from them and, more than anything else, that seemed to convince them of his sincerity.

He asked them to train his own warband up as oarsmen.

She'd received a lot of strange looks when she'd volunteered. She'd ignored them. Her body could cope with it, strong and supple after year upon year of sparring, though in truth after the first shift she'd spent at an oar her hands were blistered and weeping, and her back and shoulders were in agony. When she woke the next morning it was worse. By the third day she was getting used to it.

The veteran rowers had accepted her presence quickly, especially when the Jehar started filling benches as well, at least half of them women. They had attacked rowing as if it was an enemy, with stony faces and determined stoicism. Harder to get used to, though, were giants sitting on the oar-benches. Balur had been the first to try. The bench had creaked when he sat upon it, and the first time he and a few of his kin pulled at their oars the ship had listed so heavily the decks had taken water. It had taken some careful rearrangement of seating to balance the ship out.

'We're leaving the forest behind us.' It was the small, dark-skinned man named Javed sitting on the bench across from her. His head was shaved clean, dark stubble shadowed his jaw, and he had more scars on his body than Coralen had ever seen. He was small framed, but his musculature had a wiry strength that Coralen recognized and respected, and he moved with a grace reminiscent of the Jehar that spoke of explosive power.

'Aye,' Coralen grunted. She'd not really mastered the art of talking and rowing yet.

'Where exactly are you all going?' Javed asked her.

'Forwards,' Coralen grunted. Everyone within the warband knew that they were travelling to Dra.s.sil, the city of tales, until recently something she'd thought of as exactly that: a tale. Now, though, it was just accepted. Coralen was aware that other people would not view it in the same way.

'Strange company you keep,' Javed observed.

I suppose it is. Coralen didn't think of it that way any more, much as she no longer viewed Dra.s.sil as a strange destination.

A bell rang behind her, signalling the end of her shift on the bench. Smoothly she raised her oar, pulled it through its hole and shelved it. Javed gave her a mock-bow as she stood and filed along the aisle to the stairs that led to the top deck. She blinked in the sunlight and nodded to Farrell as he pa.s.sed her to take his place at an oar. The deck was narrow, dominated by a single mast and furled sail, beyond it a raised deck where Dath stood helming the steering oar. Coralen walked to the ship's rail and leaned out, looking downriver. More ships followed them, their small fleet.

Four nights they'd been rowing up the Afren, away from Uthandun, each morning expecting to see ships appear on the river behind them, or hear the pounding of hooves as a warband swept along the riverbank.

That wouldn't be so easy, though; most of the time I haven't even been able to see beyond the riverbank. It had been choked thick with coppiced woods and undergrowth, trailing willow and black alder. Although now the banks were mostly clear, trees and undergrowth thinning, flat meadows visible through them. Why have our enemy not come after us? We were outnumbered, within their grasp. Whatever the reason, Coralen was starting to think that they were not being followed, that they had escaped.

It was a good plan, I can't deny. Corban's leadership skills had gone up in her estimation, coming up with the plan, and keeping a cool head to see it through. It had been well done, she had to admit, and she felt a swell of pride at her own contribution to it the straw men and fires to draw the enemy's eye.

Aye, it had worked a treat.

And now, to all appearances, they were free of pursuit and on the borders of Narvon and Isiltir, almost out of enemy territory. It was a strange feeling. Relief. It still didn't stop her looking over her shoulder, though.

And now we are sailing to Dra.s.sil, instead of travelling south to Ardan. To Edana. She wasn't sure how she felt about that.

A hand touched her on the shoulder.

'You ready?'

It was Cywen, twirling a throwing-knife between her fingers and grinning.

During the first day upon the ship, after the heat of battle had left her veins and general tasks had been finished clearing the ship of the dead, tending the wounded and mourning fallen comrades Coralen had found herself in an unusual situation. Every day for as long as she could remember she had been in her saddle before dawn, riding out with her growing band of scouts, always active and contributing. But as the ships had rowed further and further away from Uthandun she had started to feel useless, obsolete.

Cywen had saved her, requesting that she teach her blade-work. Coralen had been more than happy to oblige, and asked for a lesson in knife-throwing in return. She wasn't sure that learning to throw a blade whilst standing upon a moving, swaying ship was the best way to begin, but it was too late by the time she thought of that.

Since then Dath had filled the inactivity gap, giving orders to anyone whom he saw standing around any small task to ensure the smooth running of the ship. Even now if Coralen stood still long enough she knew that she'd hear him calling her name.

'Of course,' Coralen said.

They stood and faced the raised deck at the rear of the ship. Upon its timber wall Cywen had painted a human outline, arm raised and brandishing a sword. Someone had, humorously, given it small horns and t.i.tled it a Kadoshim. Cywen handed her a knife.

Having been witness to previous sessions, Jehar, giants and off-duty oarsmen scattered from the rear half of the deck. Coralen had not taken to knife-throwing like the natural she'd expected to be. From the corner of her eye she saw Javed lean against the ship's rail to watch them.

She took aim, setting her feet as Cywen had taught her, bringing the blade back to her ear, then- A sword slammed into the wooden outline, almost exactly where Coralen had been aiming.

'Hah, Laith is getting better,' a voice laughed from just behind her, deep and almost deafening her.

'Stop boasting,' Cywen said, smiling up at the giantling. Laith's head was bandaged from the wound she'd received during the battle. It didn't seem to dampen her enthusiasm, though.

'I'm speaking truth,' Laith said with a frown. 'Look.' She pointed at her handiwork. 'And it's not stuck, see,' Laith said, bounding over to the sword and tugging it free. 'Laith has been thinking,' she said, puffing her chest out. 'I listen to Cywen skill not strength.' She tapped the side of her head. 'And a bigger blade.'

Despite herself, Coralen laughed, then shook her head. Laughing with a Benothi giantling; me, who rode with Rath and his giantkillers. How things change.

'Where'd you get that sword?' Cywen asked Laith.

'From the dead,' Laith replied. 'They do not need them now.'

Coralen looked closer, saw that it was one of the short swords that the Vin Thalun favoured. The giantling lifted a leather coat to reveal another half-dozen of them secreted about her body.

Cywen shook her head, still smiling. She grasped it, testing its balance.

'It's weighted wrong,' she said. 'When we get to Dra.s.sil I'll ask Farrell to make you something this size and weight, but balanced and weighted for throwing.'

Laith grinned. 'I am a smith, too,' she said, 'but I've only made bigger things wheels, axles for wains.' She shrugged. 'Will Farrell do it?'

'If he says no to me, we can always get Coralen to ask him,' Cywen said.

Coralen scowled at that, well aware of and unimpressed by the smith's feelings for her.

'Dra.s.sil?' Javed said loudly. He sauntered closer. 'Did you say Dra.s.sil?'

Cywen looked at him, frowning. They'd all forgotten he was there. She ignored him and turned away.

'Hey,' Javed said, reaching out and grabbing Cywen's shoulder.

A huge hand clamped around Javed's wrist and wrenched him off of Cywen.

'You do not touch her,' Laith said. Her playful, cheerful expression was gone, replaced by jutting brows and flat eyes. Javed's face twitched and he exploded into movement, faster than Coralen could see. Javed's free hand lashed out, his feet shifting, a flurry of movement, and then Laith was falling like a felled oak. She crashed to the timber deck, Javed crouched above her, a knife in his hand, hovering over the giant's throat.

How did he do that?

'Bigger they are, harder they fall,' Javed muttered.

Everything froze for a moment, Coralen dimly aware that all on the ship's deck were staring at them. Something warred across Javed's face, emotions fighting for supremacy. His jaw spasmed, like a spark setting something in motion, followed by a contraction in the striated muscles of his shoulder, a drawing back of his wrist, and then Coralen was lunging forwards. She kicked out, caught Javed's wrist as the knife began its descent, sending it spinning out of his hand. With a snarl Javed was turning, launching himself at her. A dozen blows flew between them, some blocked, some landing, then they were crushed together, spinning, still punching. Coralen's back slammed into the wall of the cabin.

Blood dripped from Javed's nose.

They froze, staring at each other, both breathing heavily.

Then another sound filtered through the fog of Coralen's focus.

Growling. Deep, vibrating through the timber deck into Coralen's boots.

'You should let her go and step away,' a voice said, cold, angry but controlled.

Javed stared a moment longer at Coralen, his face twisted with anger no, something deeper than that, a berserk, consuming fury. Then, slowly, muscles shifted, loosened. He blinked, let go of her, stepped away.

Corban stood behind them, a look on his face that was a far cry from his usual amicable smile.

'I'll not see a hand raised against my friends, or tolerate them being hurt,' he said to Javed. 'So do we have a problem here?' Corban did not move, had no weapon in his hands, but Javed took a step away from him. Storm's growl shifted, became deeper somehow. Saliva dripped from her bared fangs.

'I I am . . . sorry,' Javed said. And actually looked as if he was. He wiped a hand across his face, then turned and staggered away.

As the sun sank into the west it bathed the flat land of glistening marsh spread before them in its orange glow, myriad waterways and stagnant pools glistening like liquid amber. Behind them the bastion of the Darkwood stood stark and silhouetted, fading into the distance, and along with it the realm of Narvon.

Ahead is Isiltir, and beyond it Forn Forest and Dra.s.sil. Coralen stood with Farrell by the gap in the rail where the boarding ramp would be lowered, waiting for Dath to yell his orders. He was on the riverbank, telling Laith where to secure a mooring rope. Her lip throbbed, a reminder of her earlier encounter. The fight sat heavy in her mind, the look in Javed's eyes as he fought her. It had been as if he'd become another person. We all do that when we fight for real, to some degree. But still, what she had seen in his eyes . . .

And how he had reacted to Corban. There had been something new about Corban, in his voice and also in his eyes, something commanding. She hated that he had come to her rescue, that he had felt the need to step in. She scowled. I can look after myself. A few moments more and I would have had him. She thought about that a while, in all truth not sure if she would have. Javed was so fast, so committed to each move, with nothing held back, as if life and death were of no consequence.

'Come on, then,' Dath yelled up to them, 'we've not got all day.'

Coralen made to shout something abusive but then grimaced as her lip pulled.

Farrell caught her wince. 'I will call him out,' he snarled from the other side of the boarding-ramp as they lowered it to the bank, their end hooking onto a timber lip.

'What?' Coralen said, having no idea what Farrell was talking about.

'That oarsman,' he said. 'If only I'd been there.'

'Good job you weren't,' Coralen said. 'He put a giant bigger than you on her back.'

'It's not about size,' Farrell said, looking offended. 'I've seen more combat than Laith.'

'Don't be an idiot,' Coralen snapped at him. 'It was nothing.' And he might have killed you, you big oaf. Much as you get on my nerves, I'd rather you alive than dead.

'And besides, I can look after myself. Don't need anyone to fight my battles for me.'

Farrell looked as if he wanted to say something but chose not to.

Not as much of an idiot as I thought.

'Everyone off,' Dath yelled, cupping his hands to his mouth. Laith copied him, her voice booming across the river.

They were sitting along the riverbank and spread in a half-circle around a row of fire-pits. Real meat was turning on spits auroch, boar, deer all found salted and hanging in one of the large transporters they'd stolen. Close to seven hundred souls sat curving around the fire-pits, stomachs growling and mouths watering at the smells, a murmur of antic.i.p.atory conversation thrumming amongst them.

Coralen sat with Farrell, Cywen and Dath. Also Kulla the Jehar, who seemed to have become Dath's shadow in recent days. A few oarsmen that Farrell had befriended from his shift joined them, a father and son.

'Atilius and Pax,' Farrell introduced the two men.

Conversations with the oarsmen had been hesitant at first, so many of them on the verge of death, emaciated, withdrawn and insular. More of them were beginning to mix with Corban's warband now, though, probably helped by the fact that they were sharing shifts on the oar-benches.

'Where are you from?' Dath asked them.

'Tenebral,' Atilius, the older man, said. He had the look of a warrior about him, close-cropped hair and beard, darkly tanned skin, solid and stocky, not an ounce of excess fat on his frame. There was something about him that looked familiar to Coralen.