16

The Deepest Cuts Are Hardly Felt

The forest on the far side of the island was scabrous, like the skin of those who contracted keyshan’s rot. Joron’s upper arms itched. They ran through a variegated landscape, splashing through places open to the sky where the first rays of Skearith’s Eye were gently lightening the dark. The growing blue above looking unbelievably healthy compared to the brown and wilting forest.

The ground they ran over was strewn with soft and yielding vegetation making them slide and slip along, and then they were back into the darkness, into the constant brown rain from the dying leaves above. And yet, the forest never fell away enough to give them a glimpse of the sea, of where their boats should wait, and they did not know whether they ran toward their own people or toward a shoreline full of the enemy, furious that their quarry had escaped, ready to spend that fury on those left behind.

How long would they last in that case?

Not long.

The gullaime were far ahead of them. The time at the windspire, though brief, had energised them and their clawed feet were far more sure footed than the booted and bare human feet. Joron had given the windtalkers instruction to stop in the vegetation near the shore but had no idea whether they would do as he asked.

Joron and those with him ran into a group of women and men as they came out of forest and into light. Half dazzled by changing light they were on the enemy before either realised what was happening. The enemy were facing the opposite way, no doubt staring after the flock of gullaime that had come thundering past, and Joron, Coult and their fellows fell upon them. Not stopping, not fighting in any meaningful way, only cutting holes in the ragged line so they could push through, dragging the enemy deckchilder after them the way a needle drags thread through cloth. Then Joron and his comrades finally burst onto a beach, running hard between the huge rocks that dotted the shingle and sand as pink as the new skin over a wound.

The second time they found the enemy they were not as lucky. These women and men were facing them, had heard the screaming from their fellows and had set themselves up in a rough line. They had no shields and spears, or the fight would have been much harder, and if not for Coult – furious, reckless, angry Coult, who lay about himself with his curnow with such fury none could or would stand against him – then maybe they would not have got through at all. Joron only retained fractured glimpses of the fight. Gouting blood, flesh being opened. A hard impact against his back as someone fell. Mouths wide in screams. Blades coming toward him. Blocking. Slashing. Hurting. Being hurt. Then a gap in the line. Running.

They lost three – two killed outright, one who took a cut to the leg and could not run. When Joron glanced behind him he saw the woman being hacked apart, heard her screaming for help but could only hope the Hag ended her quickly. Anzir ran by him, her face grey, blood streaming down her arm from an ugly-looking cut to her bicep. His back ached.

Twice they passed single gullaime, seemingly lost and wandering. The first time Farys tried to pull him to a halt, pointing at the windtalker which was aimlessly pecking at the ground near the drooping plant line of the forest.

“No time, Farys,” he shouted and pulled her away. Running from the screaming, baying, bloodthirsty mob behind them. With every step the enemy grew in sound and numbers, and he knew, as he ran and slipped and slid along the ground, he knew that if they were late, if Brekir did not wait for them, then his life ended here; on a rocky beach at the edge of a stinking, dripping forest.

He wanted to stop, to slow, to look for boats on the shore, disrupting the smooth lines of waves lapping on the sharp pink sand. He could not. The baying behind him never stopped. He imagined a hundred, a thousand behind him, and how many waited further down the beach beyond the rocks?

He did not know.

He could only run.

And run, and run.

There.

Ship rising!

Brekir’s ship. Snarltooth. His back hurt. Snarltooth moving, out in the channel, wind filling its black wings, making them ripple and billow as the ship came about to catch the wind and turn away from the island. He felt his steps faltering.

Too late.

They were too late.

So much pain.

“Come on, Joron,” shouted Coult, grabbing his arm, “nearly there!”

He would have said “No point,” or “Too late,” but he had not the breath, it had been stolen from him. All he could do was let Coult pull him on, running and running, his legs starting to become numb, his bones feeling as if they bent within his tired flesh, his back on fire, stumbling between giant rocks and there – the sea. Blue as fine glass, kissed with morran light. Where the surf washed the sand, where gullaime – gathered in gaggles, milling about – pecked at the sand or lifted clawed feet to experimentally place them in the water, avoiding the corpses of women and men gently rocking on the waves. In the distance Snarltooth making its way out to the deeper sea, surrounded by flukeboats full of those they had saved from the island. His back hurt. The scene before him framed by two massive grey rocks, one on either side. Forward, still stumbling, his arm held by Coult. The island rumbled, ground shaking as it settled, as the rocks and material of it recovered from whatever it was Joron had done at the windspire.

And from behind came deckchilder. Ten, twenty, thirty. Not a lot, but enough. They held curnows and boarding axes, looked angry, spattered with mud and plant matter. The largest of them, a man in the leather straps of the Kept, pointed his axe at Coult.

“We have you now,” he shouted. “Give up and you’ll at least die quickly. Fight us and I’ll give you to those who lost their loved ones in the fires.” By him was the shipwife. The one with his sword. Barnt.

“Get ready,” said Coult; he was breathing hard also but managed a smile. “Stay behind me, Deckkeeper.” He seemed to know no fear. Joron clasped the hilt of his curnow.

“Sell yourselves dearly,” said Joron, panting between each word. His back, such pain. “Don’t get taken alive.” More quietly, “He has my sword.”

“You heard him,” shouted Coult to the woman and men around them. “What are you waiting for?”

The big man stood before the enemy line smiled. Shipwife Barnt raised his sword, Joron’s sword, as if this was something he had been waiting for all his life. Then the smile vanished, the sword arm faltered and Joron heard another voice.

“Down!”

He span, saw Brekir running out from behind the massive rocks with ten women, another ten coming from behind the other rock. “Down!” she shouted again and her deckchilder formed into two lines. One on their knees, one standing. They brought up crossbows to their shoulders. Joron threw himself to the floor, feeling the sharp sand cut into wherever his skin was bare, knowing that when he hit the salt water his body would sting everywhere, but that was a joyous thought because it meant he would be alive, and just a moment before he had not believed he would ever touch salt water again.

“First line,” shouted Brekir. “Loose!” And the bolts flew, cutting into the men and women on the beach. Three hit the big Kept who staggered back but, miraculously, managed to remain standing. Shipwife Barnt used him as cover. Brekir’s first line went to their knees, reloading. Brekir gave them a moment, then shouted, “Second line! Loose!” And the bolts flew again. This time the Kept fell and the volley was more than those still standing could take. Their shipwife shouted “Retreat!” and they vanished, running back up the beach. Then there were hands, too many hands, too many arms helping him up. Pulling him toward the shoreline, voices saying: “Lemme help you, D’keeper,” “You just stand, D’keeper,” “You lean on me, D’keeper,” and why were they acting like he was some stonebound new to the fight? Why were they so intent on keeping hold of him as they moved toward the flukeboats hidden behind the giant rocks? And there was he foolishly saying, “No, no, my sword, Meas gave me that sword.” Women and men were shooing gullaime aboard. Now they were half carrying him.

He had not realised how tired he was.

His back hurt.

“I can walk,” he said, but the words barely made it out of his mouth.

“Worry not, Deckkeeper.” A strong voice, one he did not recognise. “We’ll get you on the boats and aboard the Snarltooth, and we’ll have your wound sewn up and healed before you’re back on Tide Child, don’t you worry.”

Wound? He had a wound?

He wanted to ask where, but his mouth was no longer working. When? The pain, a long line of agony from his shoulder down to his waist. The more he thought about it the more it hurt until there was a line of fire across his back and deep within his flesh and if there had been any air left in his lungs he would have screamed. If there had been any energy left in his muscles he would have screamed.

But there was not.

He did not.

Instead he closed his eyes, and let the Mother’s cold hand usher him away to unconsciousness. His last thought being, I do not even remember being hit.