They had had to tack, mainly on an easterly heading. It was frustrating when their course and safety lay to the west, but they knew they had to clear a long spit which stretched down south-eastward from the westerly tip of the gulf. On each tack Wada had the yard braced round until it ran from bow to quarter, bringing the windward sheet forward of the mast. Late morning, when the wind picked up, and the bow had begun to dig into the waves, he had them lower the yard about a third of the way down the mast. Not only had it made the boat plane the water better, it had had the advantage of making their sail harder to see from a distance. Unlike the gaudy spread of the Brondings, it was a plain, tan, weather-stained thing; which was all to the good in trying to avoid pursuit. In the afternoon the wind had risen again. Wada had ordered the canvas abaft the mast brailed up and the weather sheet tightened. With the sail almost triangular and the forward yardarm dragged down, the Warig had sailed as well into the wind as any ship could.
Ballista had much admired Wada’s seamanship. He would have done the same himself. But it was many years since he had sailed these northern waters, and he was happy to let the Harii take charge. Except when tacking, and apart from a few men bailing intermittently, there had been no task demanded of the crew. The majority had attempted to sleep, huddled and damp beneath their benches. Ballista had gone from bow to stern, always scanning the sky and sea; trying to judge their progress, guess the turn of the weather, and ever, ever looking for the sight of a sail. Twice he glimpsed a smudge of white far to the north. Otherwise, the grey sea remained empty, nothing but gulls soaring above.
After a time, Maximus had stopped shadowing Ballista and had curled up like a dog and gone to sleep at the helmsman’s feet. But Tarchon had not left Ballista’s side. Sometimes the Suanian had muttered things in his native language. Mostly inaudible, the few words Ballista both caught and understood were dark, involving gods, honour and bloody revenge. After Ballista and Calgacus had saved Tarchon from drowning, the Suanian had sworn to protect them with his life. Out on the Steppe he had failed Calgacus. It sat heavily on Tarchon. Ballista knew its weight.
The sun was getting low when they had finally won the searoom to clear the spit. As they turned, as if to mock their previous progress, the gods had set the wind to blow steadily from the east. Ballista had been tempted to stand out well from any sandbanks and sail through the night. But the men were cold, wet and cramped. Despite having taken what rest they could, they had still been exhausted. They had needed hot food, the chance to stretch and sleep ashore. They were not as far as he would like from the Vistula delta and the Brondings, but Ballista had asked Wada to take them in.
The spit was a low beach of white sand, backed by timber. It was an exposed anchorage in anything other than a southerly wind. With nearly their last reserves of strength, they hauled the ship half out of the water. They had unshipped only what was absolutely necessary, and made the Warig ready for a hasty departure. In the glooming they had gone to gather wood. The trees formed a narrow belt, with open water on the far side. Their lower trunks were bare. As there were not many fallen branches, the crew had gathered driftwood as well. It was all damp, but with perseverance they had got the campfire burning. As the flames sawed in the wind, they had warmed themselves, and cooked a stew of disparate contents. Ballista had been one of those who had taken first watch. After an hour, another had taken his place, and he had rolled himself in his cloak by the embers of the fire and fallen straight into a deep sleep.
The morning was overcast. The wind was still in the east, but it had fallen. Sky and sea were united in sullen grey.
The Warig came alive as her keel ran free. The men launching her clambered over the stern, and went to their places, their boots slapping wet and noisy on the deck. The bow oarsmen were already pulling her out. Maximus touched Ballista’s arm. The Hibernian flicked his eyes to the east. Ballista looked but could see nothing. He gripped the prow and swung his boots up on to the gunwale. Swaying with the rise and fall, he peered out into the greyness. His eyes smarted with tiredness and the salt. He thought he saw something. It was gone before he could tell what. He wiped his streaming eyes. There it was again. A patch of solidity in the shifting air and water, a hint of colour.
‘Two sails,’ Maximus said quietly.
‘The same two?’
‘I have good eyesight, I am not a fucking magician.’
Wada pointed the prow-idol to the west. The men got the oars inboard, squared the yard and shook out the sail so the following breeze fell on both sheets simultaneously. Ballista and Maximus moved to the stern. There was no point in sharing their fears until they were certain.
The rising sun struggled to make its presence felt from behind the leaden clouds. Yet it was enough. Distance was hard to judge in the monochrome world, but perhaps two miles astern were two sails. They were black in the dim light. They could be any colour, belonging to any two ships. Many vessels plied the Suebian Sea. But Ballista had no doubt as to their identity.
Wada the Short received the news calmly. He turned the Warig to starboard to get the wind on her quarter. Then, as she heeled and forged out into the open sea, he had Ballista take the steering oar. Wada moved purposefully through the ship. He felt the tautness of the lines, slackened off those towards the prow and took in those towards the stern. Taking the steering oar again, he brought the wind first a little more abeam, then a bit astern, feeling the run of the ship. Announcing he needed to bring her head up a fraction, he shouted for some of those to the fore to move back down the boat.
Ballista managed not to grin as he watched a bedraggled Zeno and Amantius shuffling towards him. There was something pleasing in those one-time inhabitants of the imperial court being used as ballast in an open boat in a northern sea.
The rearrangement complete, Wada grunted his satisfaction. The improvement seemed small, but it might be significant. Despite the light airs, the water lapped white down the larboard side.
Ballista looked back to the east. In the gathering light, any lingering uncertainties were resolved. The two ships had altered course in pursuit. Their sails were red- and blue-striped. At least they seemed no closer.
‘Persistent fuckers,’ Maximus said. ‘Given the other one in the delta, there may be more following.’
‘We die before them take you,’ Tarchon said. ‘Best you dead too.’
‘Sure, he does have a point. From what we hear, your Bronding lord Unferth would love to be getting his hands on a son of Isangrim.’
Ballista was finding little enjoyment in this conversation. ‘They are heavier ships; in a gentle wind we should outrun them.’
Within the hour, Ballista regretted his words. Usually he was careful to tempt neither gods nor fate. The wind got up, raising white caps on the waves which now rolled out of the east. The Warig began to pitch and slide slightly as she rode the sea. The motion brought no danger, but both Zeno and one of his slaves were violently sick on the deck where they huddled. Men roared at them to get to the leeward side.
Ballista took the Rugian guide to Wada the Short in the stern. All three knew the Suebian Sea. They agreed it would be madness to try to sail direct to Hedinsey. It would be a run of at least two days and a night. Even if they had the supplies and the crew still had the stamina — neither of which was the case — the Brondings would overhaul them. ‘A heavier ship for heavier weather,’ Wada announced. There was a storm coming, the Rugian said, a bad one. The tall, black clouds piling up on the eastern horizon made this hard to gainsay. They must look to find shelter from both weather and pursuit.