Edana kicked her heels against her horse and rode to the front. Halion followed as quickly as he could on foot, Marrock lingering.
Camlin looked at the warrior’s arm, where a bandage covered the stump of his wrist.
‘How is it?’ Camlin asked him.
Marrock raised his left arm, gazing at the stump.
‘It itches,’ he said. ‘Or at least, it feels like my fingers itch. And they’re not there.’
‘I’ve heard similar said before. Comrade of mine lost an ear, but was always trying to scratch it.’
‘I’ll live,’ Marrock said, ‘though it’s hard getting used to the idea I’ll never draw a bow again.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m alive, so I’ll not complain.’ He looked hard at Camlin then. ‘I’m grateful to you, Camlin, for all that you’ve done. Edana’s right: we’d not be here if not for you.’
Camlin walked along in silence as they crested a rise in the road, the grey walls of Dun Taras appearing in the distance. He did not pay too much mind to it; he was too busy smiling.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
MAQUIN
Maquin pulled on his oar. He had lost track of time, had no idea how many nights had passed since Dun Kellen had fallen and he had been herded onto this ship. A ten-night? Twenty? It had merged into one long, hellish slog, each day the same: kicked awake at dawn, sitting and pulling on the oar, hour after hour, all marked by the constant beating of a rower’s drum, the only marker of time that seeped into his awareness. He’d thought he was fit and strong, with a warrior’s stamina that could last all day on the battlefield, and recently he had done just that, but nothing had prepared him for this. The muscles in his back and shoulders, neck and arms burned, felt as if they were ripping, tearing apart with each stroke of the oar. And his hands — they were bandaged now, the palms crusted with oozing blood and pus where they had blistered and burst and blistered again. His wrists were the same, the skin and flesh worn by the ill-fitting chains that bound him to the other rowers on his bench. Each day would end with the coming of night, a bowl of something closer to vomit than food, and then sleep — instant, exhausted, dreamless sleep.
He had picked up the technique of rowing well enough — he’d pulled an oar a few times with the Gadrai, along the dark tree- shrouded waters of the Rhenus. He’d done better than others, anyway. Some of them were dead now, unable to master the technique, whipped until their backs were a shredded mess; some the fever took, others just collapsed with exhaustion. Regardless, they all went the same way, tipped unceremoniously over the side and fed to the river.
Orgull was still alive, a few benches in front of him. He was not in good shape, though. The warrior with the ruined nose made a point of visiting Orgull each day, giving him a taste of a whip or cudgel. One time he clubbed Orgull unconscious, then had him dragged down the centre isle and doused with a few buckets of water, then clubbed some more. Orgull took the torture in silence, his only response being to stare at his tormentor, which seemed to incite the man to greater acts of violence. Maquin was surprised even Orgull could survive the beatings he was taking, and manage the torture of rowing every waking hour.
Part of him just wanted to lay down his oar, to tell these pirates to go to hell, and smile as they sent him across the bridge of swords; part of him would welcome that. But there was a stubbornness in him that refused to quit, that refused to admit the battle was over. And one thought above all others kept him going. Jael. Each day he remembered the smile on Jael’s face as Maquin had been dragged onto the ship, remembered the man’s mocking laughter drifting after him. He fantasized about killing Jael, quickly, slowly, painfully, every conceivable way, and those thoughts stoked the fire in him, kept him pulling, league after league after league.
A shadow fell across him and looking up he saw Lykos, his captor and the leader of these corsairs staring down at him, arms folded across his chest. His face was unreadable, a sharp intellect dancing in his eyes. The pirate captain regarded him a long while.
‘You still live, then,’ Lykos said. Maquin was unsure whether it was a statement or a question.
‘Clearly,’ Maquin said, focusing on his rowing.
‘I mean in here,’ Lykos said, tapping Maquin’s chest. ‘The death wish is on you, I can see it plainly, but there is more to you than that — something deeper. A will to live.’
Maquin said nothing.
‘Most of your comrades with the death wish, they’ve gone over the side, food for fish by now. Yet you’re still here.’
Maquin shrugged.
‘I’m glad of that, my friend.’
‘I’m not your friend,’ Maquin said, unable to keep the passion from his voice. ‘And why do you care?’
‘No, you are right: you are not my friend. You are my property,’ Lykos said, grinning, his teeth white and straight. ‘And I would not say that I care. But I am interested. You may be useful to me.’
‘Isn’t pulling an oar for you use enough?’ Maquin asked.
‘I’ve something more entertaining in mind.’
‘What?’
Lykos grinned again, clapping Maquin on the shoulder. ‘We’ll talk again, when we’re home. If you’re still alive.’
As the days merged, Maquin began to judge the passage of time by the changing of the landscape around them. The rolling hills of Dun Kellen were far behind now, the horizon opening up into a flat vista, trees disappearing, replaced by tall, thick banks of reed and dense walls of scrub, punctuated by spindly sycamore and willow. Every evening was defined by great clouds of mosquitoes, and every morning Maquin would wake with a multitude of itching bites.
One morning their fleet landed against the silt-edged riverbank and they were all herded onto the spongy ground. A level of shock seeped through Maquin’s exhaustion and confusion as the corsairs began dragging their ships onto land, using thick, tar-crusted ropes. The ships came onto land surprisingly easily — they were sleek and shallow-draughted — and once out of the water the corsairs fetched the long timbers that they used as masts or kept as spares against storm damage. Maquin watched with growing understanding as the masts were placed under the prows of the boats and they were dragged further onto land, then the second mast put in place, and the third, the first one fetched from the rear and carried around to the front, beginning the process all over again. It was quite a sight, thirty ships being pulled across the land, all in a row.
Then orders were yelled and the whips started snapping, and he and his fellow captives were set to work, some put on the ropes to drag the boats across the land, others to do the running with the makeshift rollers. More than one man on that task ended up crushed under a ship’s keel. They crossed countless leagues of fenland, the ground flat and treacherous. After a day of this, Maquin was praying to return to rowing; a whole different set of muscles was feeling close to failure. Also his feet were quickly soaked through, and by the second evening felt as if they had swollen to twice their normal size.
On the third day they reached another body of water, only a little wider than a stream. They followed its course and within half a day it had widened into a river. Soon after, the fleet of ships was dragged back into water, Maquin collapsing for a few instants’ rest. Something bumped into him and he turned, looking up into Orgull’s bruised and swollen face.
‘Be strong, brother,’ Orgull whispered as he brushed past, being herded back onto their ship. Maquin did not have the strength or wits to respond, then Orgull was gone, trudging up a wide plank.
It took a while to get everyone back on the ships, into their places at the benches. Maquin used the brief moments of rest to empty his boots of water, then the oar drum was beating again and Maquin was back to the rhythm of pull, lift, stretch, dip, pull, over and over.
They rowed through leagues of swamp and fen, the smell of rotting vegetation mingling with the odours of the ship — of tar and timber, but mostly sweating men. Slowly the landscape around them changed, the river broadening as they reached the edges of marshland. The land became greener and soon Maquin saw trees again. A day after that and they were entering woodland, trees growing thick and dense upon the riverbanks, branches almost blotting out the sky, reminiscent of Forn, though not so ancient, not so daunting. A ten-night later the river curled out of the forest; a wooden fortress sat on a hill to the north. People watched them pass, warriors ranked upon the fortress walls arrayed in black and gold. They passed under a stone bridge that would have smashed their masts to splinters if they had been raised. Soon, the river widened into an estuary and Maquin heard the call of gulls. Now the masts were raised, great sails of cloth bound with strips of leather were unfurled and billowed as the ships met the swell of the sea. The beat of the drum increased and Maquin’s ship felt as if it was cutting a line through the waves, almost flying.