Cartheron inspected the glasses, blew in them, and wiped them on his very dirty shirt. He used his teeth to pull the cork free then splashed out a liberal measure of the spirit and handed Jute a glass. Jute’s enthusiasm had fallen off with the polishing, but he set aside his reluctance and raised the glass. ‘To a successful venture,’ he offered.
‘To ample wine and rich women,’ Cartheron answered. ‘Or is it the other way round?’
They drank. The liquor was indeed very fine, and very strong — including the undercurrent of sweaty shirt. Jute coughed into a fist. ‘This Tyvar — you believe he’ll make it?’
‘Oh yes. Very impressive fellow. Reminds me of the old days. But I’ll let him introduce himself. We should see him soon.’
They had another glass and Jute stood in the flickering firelight longing to question the man regarding those ‘old days’ he had so casually mentioned. But tact kept him quiet. If the man wanted to talk, he would. Besides, he understood that these veterans were often unwilling to discuss the past — it was usually painful. He was old enough himself to understand that.
‘Hear that?’ Cartheron asked after a long near-silence of crackling fires, the slow crash of the waves, hissing grasses, and the calls of night-hunting animals out on the plain beyond.
Jute started — he’d been fading. Exhaustion and alcohol. ‘I’m sorry? What?’
‘Listen.’
Jute struggled to focus. Then he finally heard it: the strike and ripple of oars out upon the water.
‘He’s here,’ Cartheron announced. ‘Good.’ He raised his drink to Jute and downed it, sucking his lips. ‘Our chances have just improved materially.’
A launch emerged into the firelight’s reach. Several of the oarsmen and women jumped overboard to drag it in through the surf. Jute noted that all wore belted layered gambesons or leathers that were the underpadding of heavy armour. All the crew fought, it seemed. Two men thudded down on to the gravel shore, both still in their armour. One was the bearded fellow who had called to Jute from the vessel earlier. The other was his virtual twin, similarly armoured, only older, his beard shot with grey.
The pair doffed their helmets and tucked them under their arms, then strode up the shore to Jute and Cartheron.
‘Captain Cartheron,’ the bearded fellow greeted him. ‘I am glad to see you still with us.’
Cartheron gestured to Jute. ‘May I introduce Captain Jute Hernan, of the Silver Dawn.’
The man bowed from the waist. ‘Captain. May I compliment you on your pilot? He is worth his weight in gold. I would follow him on any sea in any storm. But I am remiss.’ He indicated the man at his side. ‘Allow me to introduce my companion. This is Haagen Vantall, Steward of the Blue Shields.’
The man bowed, as did Jute, who strove to keep his amazement from his face. The Blue Shields! Of course. One of the fighting religious cults out of Elingarth. A brother order to the Grey Swords who had fought the Pannion threat years ago.
Haagen motioned back to his companion. ‘And this is Tyvar Gendarian, Commander of the Blue Shields. Mortal Sword of Togg.’
Tyvar shook his head. ‘Mortal Sword in title only. Togg has withdrawn, as so many of the gods have now, yes? We are all left with only our own prayers to comfort us these days.’
Jute took a steadying breath. He felt as if his head was swimming. ‘Well. My thanks for interceding in the harbour. You saved all of us.’
Tyvar waved it aside. ‘It was nothing. I would have remained and slain them all as a service to our fellow mariners, but time is pressing and we are yet at the very beginning of our journey, are we not?’ He looked to Jute expectantly.
Jute suddenly felt his mouth grow dry. He swallowed, or struggled to do so, nodding. ‘Yes. Yes, quite so. These southern reaches are said to be the easiest portion of the passage. They say it gets progressively more deadly the further one travels north. We have only just entered the southernmost bay of the Dread Sea.’
Tyvar shared a glance with his companion. ‘And does your pilot know these waters?’
Despite feeling strangely shamed to fail this man, Jute had to shake his head. ‘No. But I would dare the Stormriders with her and will sail on.’
Tyvar burst out a laugh and slapped his thigh with his bunched gauntlets. ‘Excellent. May we accompany you then and sail north under your guidance?’
Jute stared, utterly amazed. ‘I’m sorry?’ he finally stammered in disbelief.
‘Perhaps our good captain is concerned regarding the apportioning of shares …’ Haagen murmured to Tyvar.
The Mortal Sword’s brows rose and he nodded, ‘Ah! I see. Do not concern yourself, captain. We of the Blue Shields are not interested in what gold or plunder may be amassed-’
‘Hear, hear,’ Cartheron muttered into his glass.
‘We wish only to reach the north. Aid us in this and we offer our swords. What say you?’
Jute gaped, staring from one to the next before settling upon the wrinkled grey-hued features of Cartheron Crust. The old sailor cocked a brow and held out the bottle. Jute offered his glass, which Cartheron filled. ‘Then I say we travel north.’ And he raised the glass to toss its contents to the back of his throat, gasping and coughing.
The commander of the Blue Shields let out a great shout and slapped Cartheron on the back. ‘Excellent! Two days for repairs, yes? Then we sail.’
Two days was far less than Jute would have wanted, but the deadline reminded him that they were not alone in this rush to the north. Others were on their way, or already ahead; who knew how many. And so he nodded his agreement. ‘Very well. Two days.’ And he added, gesturing to Tyvar, ‘If I may ask, sir, why do you wish to journey to the north? If not for the gold or the plunder, then what?’
The tall man nodded again, sombre. ‘A very good question, captain. Before Togg withdrew, he set upon me one last task, one last mission. That when certain portents were fulfilled, we of the Blue Shields would venture to the north of this region and there fight to right an ancient wrong. And to prevent a great tragedy.’
Jute frowned, uncertain. ‘A great tragedy sir? What would that be?’
Tyvar waved as if the answer was obvious. ‘Why, the death of innocents, of course.’ He bowed his farewell, then turned to Cartheron. ‘My regards to our Lady,’ he offered. ‘Come, Haagen,’ and the two returned to their launch.
Jute and Cartheron watched them go. It was now the middle of the night, and darkness quickly swallowed the small boat. The bonfires snapped and popped on the beach, sending sparks high amid the stars of the night sky. Most of Jute’s crew lay asleep around them. He sighed and rubbed his aching, foggy brow.
Cartheron slapped the cork back into the bottle and regarded him, scratching meditatively at the bristles on his cheeks. ‘Take my advice, lad,’ he said. ‘Don’t get caught up in all this talk of missions and god-given purposes. I’ve seen it before and it only leads to misery and pain.’ He offered the bottle, which Jute took. Then he inclined his head good night and walked into the dark, crunching his way across the gravel strand to his launch.
Jute stood alone for a time. He studied the night sky as if he could somehow discern there a portent of what might lie ahead, but he was no Seer or mage. He turned to the ridge with its tall tossing grasses — who knew what enemies or dangers lay hidden within? Finally, he drew a deep breath and headed to a fire to find a place to lie down.
* * *
Silverfox walked the dunes of the coast. Her hair, long uncut and uncombed, whipped about her head. She hugged herself as she went; the wind was cold this day. Sea-birds hovered overhead, their wings backswept like strung bows. It was odd, she considered as she went, how she was alone yet felt as if she had to be on her own. Because of course she was never truly alone. Within her Bellurdan, the giant Thelomen, raged for action, while Nightchill, the ancient Sister of Cold Nights, and the true wellspring of her power, counselled patience. Closest to her in her humanity was Tattersail, the mage, once of the Malazan imperial cadre. She too urged patience.