There was nothing they could do to unnerve him.
No indeed. It would be they who would regret these actions. He would see to it.
And so he drew his sandalled feet up from the damp stone floor and crossed them, set his hands on his knees and settled into a course of deep meditation – to wait, to cleanse his mind – and to prepare.
* * *
A handful of the crew of the Tempest crouched together deep in the ship’s hold and talked murder.
‘Why sail onward?’ asked Hela. ‘He’s one man, and rich! Let’s toss him overboard and be on our way!’
‘West, he says,’ hissed Gudun. ‘Like it’s a stroll across the Deep. It’s all the cap’n could do to convince him to head up the coast. I say we get rid a’ him.’
‘The isle of the Seguleh is close,’ mused the mate, Wess. ‘We could maroon him there.’
All broke out in gales of laughter at that suggestion. A bottle made the rounds.
‘Then it’s decided?’ urged Hela. ‘We take him down?’
Young Renalt of March raised a slim dagger, growling, ‘Aye.’
Wess slapped the dagger aside. ‘He wears a mail coat, y’fool. How many crossbows ’n’ such do we have in the armoury?’
‘Enough,’ answered Gudun, the quartermaster. ‘And the cap’n?’ he asked Wess.
‘She’ll go along or she’ll be next.’
‘What does Bonecutter Jute say?’ Renalt asked of the group, and he gestured to where a grey-haired old man lay back against the planks, his eyes shut, a bottle clutched to his chest.
‘Who cares what that old winesack has to say?’ Hela snarled, but, glancing about, she saw frowns and uncertainty at her words among all those gathered and so she threw an arm out, inviting, ‘Fine!’
Renalt jostled the old man’s shoulder but it was not enough to rouse him. He cuffed him harder and the fellow snorted, smacking his lips, and blinking into wakefulness. ‘More wine,’ he croaked. Renalt tapped the bottle at his chest and he grunted, surprised and pleased, and took a swig.
‘We’re moving ’gainst this stranger,’ said Renalt. ‘What say you?’
The old man leaned forward, peered right and left, and cleared his throat. He raised a hand, finger poised, and said, ‘Who?’
Hela blew out an angry breath. ‘Our passenger, y’damned useless old soak!’
Bonecutter Jute nodded then, knowingly, and took another quick swig. He squinted up one eye and pressed the raised finger to his chin, thoughtfully.
The crowd waited silent and still while the old man considered. Finally, he unscrewed his eye and said, frowning, ‘Who?’
All groaned their dismissal of the fellow; many suggested where he could put that damned finger of his. Wess eyed those gathered and told Gudun: ‘Open the armoury.’
The crowd broke up, but Renalt remained with Bonecutter Jute. ‘What is it?’ he asked the old man. ‘You’re always soused, but not this bad.’
The oldster hugged the bottle like a floating timber in a storm. His eyes remained resolutely squinted shut. After a time, Renalt gave up and followed the others. Alone, Bonecutter Jute let out a long breath and raised the bottle. When nothing emerged from its mouth he frowned anew and returned to hugging it. Little beady eyes gleamed in the dark around him as rats came edging out of hiding. He whispered to them: ‘I drink when I’m afeared. And I’m greatly afeared o’ something.’
* * *
Above decks, Lars quickly opened the door to the ship’s main cabin – the captain’s, which the stranger had taken as his own – and locked it behind him. He immediately began coughing and blinking in a thick miasma of sweet-smelling fumes.
‘Is there a fire, m’lord?’ he gasped, rubbing his eyes.
‘No,’ came a low hoarse answer through the dense scarves of smoke. ‘No fire. Why do you disturb me?’
He remembered his panic. ‘The crew! They’re coming for you – us! I was listening! We must get the captain behind us. Perhaps with his support we can turn some of the crew…’
A ghostly shape emerged from the smoke: the stranger adjusting his mail coat and hitching up his long leather weapon belt. Lars felt a strange shiver of preternatural fear at the sight, as if he were witnessing the visitation of some hungry revenant, or ancient spirit.
The stranger, Kallor, picked up a burning smudge, or candle – the source of the dense fumes – and extinguished it with his fingers. He set it aside, saying, ‘That won’t be necessary.’ He asked, conversationally, while adjusting the set of his archaic, two-handed sword, ‘What minimal crew – in your opinion – is necessary for the handling of this vessel?’
Lars blinked at the fellow. Had he gone mad? He stammered, ‘Some forty, I should think, m’lord.’
The stranger raised his iron-grey brows in surprise. ‘Forty? Really? You do not think that is an excessive number?’ He stepped up to the door and Lars shifted out of his way; he grasped the latch, and turned to Lars. ‘We could get by with twenty, do you not think? Now, let us go and face our assailants, yes?’
Lars could only swallow, utterly terrified. ‘I will remain here and guard your possessions, if you do not mind?’ He meant the man’s riches, which he imagined must be hidden somewhere in the cabin.
‘Suit yourself,’ the fellow answered, shrugging, and he opened the door on to the darkness of the night and strode out, his armoured boots clanking on the wood decking.
Lars shut and locked the door behind him to stand panting, his mind racing: what to do, what to do? How could he ingratiate himself with the crew? Hang back and deliver the last blow to this Kallor’s back and thereby win some credit? Or should he find and hide the riches? No, not that – they would only torture him to discover them then do away with him. He rocked in place, his hands at his own throat. How could he survive this? There must be a way!
Then he decided: side with the crew – it was the only possibility. He pressed an ear to the thin planks of the door, waiting for his chance. He heard voices in muted conversation: the lazy delivery of the stranger and the tense clipped demands of the crew’s spokesman: the mate, no doubt.
An ear-shattering scream threw him away from the door and on to his back. The thump of multiple crossbows releasing punched the air. More screams – these now tinged with terror – and the stranger’s armoured boots clomping as he marched about the deck. Panicked thumping of bare feet drummed the decking as well. Someone pounded the door, screaming, ‘He’s killing us all!’
A length of bare iron punched through the door’s planks, red-smeared, and withdrew with an ear-tearing screech. Whoever had been spitted on it sagged to the base of the door. The armoured boots clomped onward, slow and steady. Lars pushed open the door, shoving the corpse aside; was he too late already?
Outside, the deck was a heaving horror of sloshing blood and gore. Bodies rolled from side to side as the Tempest lolled, unmanned. A chill wash of watered blood and other fluids splashed over Lars’ hands and knees as he crawled. Of the stranger he saw no sign; his hunt must have taken him below decks.
One sailor, female, sat back against the mizzen, a line firmly wrapped about one arm. She was alive, but slouched red with blood from a savage slash across her face down to white bone.
Another sailor sat against the side, hands pressed to his own face where blood streamed down his forearms to run into his lap.
He’s marking them, the thought came to Lars. Marking the spared.
A new figure emerged from the companionway, tottering, unsteady. It was the Tempest’s old bonecutter and sometime sea-mage, whose name he couldn’t recall. The old fellow walked hugging a jug to his chest, the wind whipping his long beard and grey hair. Seemingly oblivious of the charnel wreckage all about, he came stepping over corpses to pass close by.