A quarter of a million Eastron and Nissalite Pure Ones lived at the Severed Hand. Far more than at Moon Rock. It was the great hold of the Sea Wolves, raised by my namesake, Duncan Red Claw, when the Always King sent forth his claws. It was only my second visit and it looked larger than I remembered. Growing up at Moon Rock, amidst fishing boats, cobbled streets, and the constant smell of fish, left me ill-prepared for the sprawling hold of the First Fang. It dominated the coast, from the Outer Sea to the Wood of Scars, visible for miles in every direction.
Any native Pure One living on Nibonay need only look at our walls to see the power of the Sea Wolves. The Nissalite had quickly surrendered before Duncan Red Claw, and were allowed freedom, whereas the rebellious Mirralite acted as petty terrorists, living in the wilds and raging against our power. They were only two of the boundless tribes of natives, beaten into submission when the Eastron arrived from across the sea. They were all called Pure Ones, though I didn’t really understand why. Weak Ones would have been more appropriate. They outnumbered the Eastron, but had no wyrd, and their military craft was limited.
When we left the void and I could get dressed, my mind didn’t care about the water, the Pure Ones, or the spectacle of the Severed Hand. I barely even cared about the Old Bitch of the Sea and her words. All I really cared about was the pain in my leg. The thorn clinch felt tighter than usual, as if Twist was angry that I’d survived the rite. I expected a few hours of insistent pain until the spirit calmed down.
“You look well,” said Mefford. “Slightly smug, but well. Your father and the First Fang are waiting at the Wolf House.”
“Can I sleep first?” I asked, my left eye twitching. “My father gets cross when I look tired.”
Mefford narrowed his eyes. “The High Captain has left Moon Rock to see his youngest son become a Sea Wolf. The First Fang has done without sleep to welcome you to his hold at this early hour. But, if you’re too tired, I’m sure they will wait.”
“My sister doesn’t sleep much,” offered Arthur Brand. “But she’s waiting in there too. You can piss off your father and Lord Ulric, but Adeline Brand is not to be trifled with. Trust me, boy, you wanna sleep later.”
Taymund Grief slapped me on the back. “Don’t be a child. You’re a short-arsed Sea Wolf with no training, but still a Sea Wolf. Act like it.”
I tensed my leg and tried to control my breathing. Taymund had taken the rite last month and tradition dictated that, if he was able, he attended the next time a pup became a Sea Wolf. If I was able, I’d be expected to do the same thing in a month’s time.
The Bay of Grief cut into the Bright Coast, overlooked by towering shipyards and the dense markets of Red Claw’s Rise. Elsewhere in the hold, people were just rising as the sun beckoned them from bed. The night fishermen would return soon and activity would engulf the coast.
I was no longer wrapped in a warm blanket of wyrd, and was glad of my heavy woollen shirt. Mefford helped me button it up, seeing my shivering, red-raw fingertips fumbling at the cloth. He then wrapped my black sea cloak around my shoulders, smiling as he did so.
“It’s not the right colour anymore, Sharp Tongue,” observed Taymund. “You need some red in it somewhere. You want people to know you’re a Sea Wolf.”
I hugged the cloak around me, rubbing my chest through the thick fabric. Black or red, it was the warmest I’d been for a day and a night.
“See my cloak,” continued the young duellist. “That’s Pure One blood. Best red paint there is. It’s what every Sea Wolf wants.”
The stupid, violent thug had his chin thrust out like he’d said something terribly clever and manly. I felt a twinge in my leg, and a sharp pain travelled up my left side. “How many bodies are there, feeding crabs at the bottom of the Bay of Grief?” I asked, spitefully. “Did they want red cloaks? Or did they just want to be Sea Wolves? Idiot.”
Taymund pouted, looking at Arthur as if he wanted confirmation that I had overstepped my bounds. Then he punched me in the face. I saw stars behind my eyes and only Mefford’s quick reactions stopped me from falling back into the water.
The young duellist smirked. “Ha, what use is strong wyrd if you can’t see a punch coming.” He punctuated my pained groans with smug laughter.
“Master Grief,” snapped the pup-master, “please refrain from beating up Master Greenfire. His first scar shouldn’t be from another Sea Wolf.”
“He should watch his fucking mouth,” mumbled Taymund, storming off towards Red Claw’s Rise.
I stood from the cold rocks, nursing a tender cheek. Taymund was typical for a young duellist. He was big, strong, and tried not to think unless absolutely necessary. He swung the blade of the Severed Hand, but didn’t care what he swung it at. He’d been taught to use his wyrd to strengthen his sword-arm. With concentration, he could split steel armour or hack through half a dozen Pure Ones.
“Five hundred and twenty-three,” said Mefford, inspecting my rapidly-swelling cheek.
“What?”
“Every pup that drowns has their name written in the Wolf House,” he replied. “There are five hundred and twenty-three bodies in the Bay of Grief. Each wanted to be a Sea Wolf, and each found their strength wanting. Though only certain families get to try at seventeen.”
I wanted to be sorry for my flippancy, but I wasn’t. Mefford was just an old man, too consumed with duty to pay me any mind. He hid it behind a friendly face, but he thought no more of me than Taymund or Arthur Brand. If it weren’t for my name and my family, he’d not think even to speak to me. But I was a Sea Wolf now, and my world had changed.
*
The Wolf House was twenty-three storeys high. It was raised a hundred and fifty years ago and had been the seat of the First Fang ever since. It was grey stone, in huge blocks and cyclopean archways, with black murals adorning the higher levels. Pictures of pirate ships, great sea battles, dead Pure Ones and Dark Brethren, and glory of every kind. But there was also sorrow. Wars lost and enemies yet to be vanquished. The Battle of the Depths, the Sunken Men and their dreaming god, the Year of Slaughter. They were a mournful counterpoint to the Sea Wolves’ bluster.
Taymund was waiting by the western entrance as Mefford and Arthur Brand and I approached. The hold was now enveloped in bright morning sunshine and the streets around the Wolf House were bustling. The walk was further than I’d hoped and my left leg was numb by the time we reached the huge building. I’d been beyond the glass a great deal in the past two days, and Twist was making up for lost time. Mefford had to catch me several times, though I had a good excuse to explain my limp. A day and a night in the Bay of Grief tightened the muscles and caused strange aches and pains.
“What’s the matter with you, lad?” asked Arthur Brand, as we approached a wide gateway, under a huge portcullis. “Bad leg?”
“The cold,” I replied. “It gets into the bones. I’ll be alright. If I get some sleep.” The last thing I wanted was to see my father, and I clung to the hope that someone would take pity on me and let me find a warm bed first.
Within, on the bottom levels of the Wolf House, there was no great hall or central chamber, just a honeycomb of rooms, both warmed by fires and left cold, with open windows, framing no glass or shutters. The ground floor belonged to the people of the hold, and was used for trials, executions, and challenges too important or private to take place in Duellist’s Yard. Pure Ones weren’t allowed, and the brown-skinned Nissalite conducted their business in front of permanent tables, set up outside.
The warmer rooms of the Wolf House contained bureaucrats and endless piles of parchment. I imagined that each dusty scroll held some specific importance that the scroll masters could interpret, but to most the words and numbers were as incomprehensible as the weather. Sea Wolves didn’t concern themselves with lists of fishermen and the price of grain. That was for Eastron who held no sword, belonged to no family, and lived and died in the security of their hold. At least, that was what we were taught.
The second and third levels were half storerooms and half auction houses. Huge, premium fish were sold in noisy crowds of braying merchants, oft-times coming to blows over the choicest tuna or the largest swordfish. The storerooms were guarded day and night by duellists, chosen for their stoic nature and refusal to accept bribes. In my estimation, people that didn’t like eating fish would have been more suited to the role.
Above the rambunctious auction pits were many levels of stored artefacts and woven heraldry. Legendary blades and armour were said to be held in locked vaults, awaiting worthy men to claim them. Some, like Duncan Red Claw’s falchion, Greatfang, had been in the Wolf House for a hundred years and would likely never be used again.
The four of us bypassed the scroll masters, the auction house and the vaults, walking up clean stone steps with worn, rounded edges and a whistling downward breeze. Halfway up the building began the Bloody Halls, the rooms of Lord Ulric Blood, the First Fang, with large sections given over to duellists’ chambers.
“Straighten your cloak, boy,” said Mefford, leading the way into the Bloody Halls. “Only Sea Wolves get in here. Try to look like one.”
Before me was a wide, open hall, lined with pillars of red and black stone. Open doorways between the pillars led to winding side corridors and vaulted antechambers. Duellists in red cloaks, wielding cutlasses and falchions, stood in two lines ahead, their weapons held in salute. Beyond the honour guard, facing me from around a circular table, were elders of the Severed Hand, awaiting their new Sea Wolf.
“Duncan Greenfire of Moon Rock!” boomed Lord Ulric Blood, sounding like a giant, gargling rocks. “How flows your wyrd? Untrained, but dangerous, from what I hear.”
From the table, my father, Wilhelm Greenfire, chuckled. His long, thin face was neither warm nor welcoming. If anything, his laughter was mocking, and I suddenly felt like a child in pain. Not a Sea Wolf or an Eastron with strong wyrd, but a scolded boy whose father couldn’t muster the effort to be proud of his son. Twist tightened around my thigh.
My ascension to Sea Wolf was not an occasion to warrant much ceremony. Five of the twenty-three elders had risen early to see me, but the majority of the hold was likely oblivious to the day and night I’d spent in the Bay of Grief. When Arthur and Adeline Brand became Sea Wolves, the streets were lined with thousands of celebrants. But not for me.
As I walked through the tightly formed corridor of dangerous-looking men and women of the hold, I hoped, beyond the sweat of my brow and the pain in my leg, that I’d be made an apprentice spirit-master and spend my days in the safety and warmth of the hold. Any notions I had of using my wyrd for the glory of the Severed Hand began to wither. I was afraid of everyone, and knew that each of them thought me a freak.
“Slow down, boy,” said my father. “Look into the faces of those who guard you. Who guard us all. They swing the blade of the Severed Hand in ways you will never understand.”
I was halfway down the line of duellists. Each and every one of them was taller and broader than me. I glanced at their hard faces, looking straight ahead either side of me. I knew a few famous names, a few distantly remembered deeds and faces. Arthur joined his sister, Adeline, at the high table, but others stayed in line to honour me. Rys Coldfire, the Wolf’s Bastard, a man unbeaten in countless one-on-one challenges; Maron Grief, Taymund’s elder brother and a brutal killer. There was no uniform to their appearance, as each duellist functioned independently, protecting the Severed Hand as their wyrd dictated. The Brand twins were never far from Lord Ulric, and were dressed in fine, leather armour. The Wolf’s Bastard, most often to be found in Duellist’s Yard, wore chainmail under a long leather coat, with wolf designs dyed into the surface. Maron’s arms were bare and he wore a simple moulded waistcoat of leather and steel. He was also the tallest amongst them, perfect for lording his considerable strength over those he perceived as weaker than him. People like me.
“Try not to shit yourself,” muttered Maron, speaking through gritted teeth so as not to be heard by the elders.
Lord Ulric banged his fist on the table and stood. “That’s enough posturing. Get over here, Master Greenfire.”
I quickened my pace to get clear of the honour guard.
“Slow down,” muttered the last duellist on the left. “It’s not unknown for youngsters to trip on the carpet.”
I looked at him. He was young, maybe twenty-five, and had curly black hair to his shoulders. He held a heavy, pattern-welded cutlass, pointing upwards in salute. I thought his family name was Ice, but didn’t know his first name.
“Thank you,” I whispered, clearing the corridor of duellists and emerging before the circular table and the elder Sea Wolves. I walked slowly, keeping my pain under control with small steps.
Lord Ulric Blood, the First Fang, sat in the centre, with his son and heir, Vikon Blood to his left, and master-at-arms, Jonas Grief to his right. My father, still wearing his disapproving sneer, was seated next to Tomas Red Fang, the hold’s elderly spirit-master. Arthur and Adeline sat in the two end seats.
I felt smaller than my already limited height. Lord Ulric was huge and intimidating, his son was tall, lean and handsome. Even my father appeared so much larger than life when sitting as an elder Sea Wolf. He made me feel small and insignificant, as if my ascension to Sea Wolf was a trial he never thought he’d have to endure. And, as soon as we locked eyes, Twist began to send pinpricks of pain up my left side.
“A name that requires my father to rise from his bed before midday,” said Vikon Blood, the Second Fang. “And wyrd that requires our spirit-master’s aging presence.”
Tomas Red Fang was the oldest man I’d ever seen. To describe him as aging seemed woefully understated. His skin was like folded paper, sharp and creased.
“I’m honoured,” I replied, hoping that I wasn’t being rude.
“Honoured?” snapped my father. “Stand up straight, boy. At least try to act like a Sea Wolf.”
“Sorry … I … didn’t know when I was allowed to speak, father.”
He frowned. I’d seen it a million times. The corners of his mouth twitched, causing his beard to ruffle sideways, and his mahogany brown eyes narrowed. If he was feeling kind, he’d scratch his beard and his eyes would soften. If not, he’d slowly nod his head.
“Always got an answer, boy,” he said, nodding his head. “They still call you Sharp Tongue, you know? Do you think that’s an honourable name for a Sea Wolf?”
I twitched, but kept the pain under control. “My name is Greenfire,” I replied. “You should know that, being my father.”
I’d overstepped the boundaries of our relationship. I was seventeen years old and I’d never spoken to him like that before. I’d never come close. He’d heard me swear under my breath once and denied me food for three days. I looked at him, Sea Wolf to Sea Wolf. Perhaps the Old Bitch of the Sea gave me strength, and I realized that his power over me was waning. I wasn’t about to kick him in the face, but I was at least unafraid of standing up to him. Though I carried on twitching, as if the thorn clinch didn’t care that I’d become a Sea Wolf or that the totem had spoken to me.
Luckily, as his face twisted into a grimace that would, ordinarily, signify a slap of some kind, Vikon Blood spoke. “I heard tales of Wilhelm Greenfire’s parenting. Apparently not exaggerated.” I struggled to look at the Second Fang. More so even than his father, he was everything that young Sea Wolves wanted to be.
Lord Ulric laughed and resumed his seat next to his son. He was a man of sixty years or more, but was still the largest man at the table. “Don’t worry, Master Greenfire,” said the First Fang. “You’re a Sea Wolf now, you can challenge your old man and kill him. If you want. Your wyrd is your own, and the Day of Challenge is never more than a week away. But if you show respect you’ll live longer. Because stronger men can challenge you.”
My father looked downwards, as if summoning Twist to emphasis his hatred. I was no longer his responsibility, but his disappointment was clear, as if he expected a magical transformation after they pulled me out of the Bay of Grief. Either that, or he was angry I’d survived. Despite the Old Bitch of the Sea, I still found myself remembering Clatterfoot’s dwelling at Moon Rock, and my father’s indifference.
“Can I speak?” I asked, looking at Lord Ulric, rather than my father.
“Of course,” replied the First Fang. “I’m sure great wisdom resides within that wyrd of yours. You’re a descendant of Robert Greenfire.”
“Yes, my lord. He was First Fang for thirty years.”
My father snorted. He was proud of his name, but not of his youngest son. I was a Greenfire, whether he liked it or not, but I’d never be the strongest, the quickest, the biggest, or the most glorious. I may be the cleverest one day, but the stronger the Sea Wolf, the more they distrusted intelligence, and there was much strength at the table before me.
“Robert is the reason you can take the rite at seventeen,” offered Vikon.
“And you’re the youngest Sea Wolf since my boy here,” said Ulric, nodding at his son. “With the strongest wyrd Tomas has seen for many a year.”
The old spirit-master nodded, his papery skin wrinkling up. I thought he was looking at me but I couldn’t be sure. His eyes were lost amidst layers of grey, mottled flesh. “You saw the Old Bitch of the Sea, didn’t you, my boy?” he asked. “She spoke to you?”
“I did. That’s what I wanted to say. It scared the shit out of me.” I paused, looking at the floor. “Sorry for my language, my lords.” I glanced behind, expecting a slap from Mefford. Luckily he still stood on the far side of the Bloody Halls, with Taymund. Instead, Twist reminded me to behave, causing further twitching.
Tomas Red Fang waved away my apology. The First Fang and his son both looked at their spirit-master, waiting for his words.
“You’re strong, Master Greenfire,” said the old man. “But don’t be ignorant of how dangerous you could be. We’re certainly not. Untrained wyrd is like a dormant volcano.” He spoke as if he and I were alone in a room somewhere, conversing over a friendly meal. “But our totem is wiser than me, so your wyrd will remain your own.” He ignored the ice-cold glare from my father and grinned, his face becoming a sack of loose skin, flowing over an expression of self-satisfaction.
“Let us not speak in haste,” said my father. “He is … erratic. In thought and deed. Perhaps we should reconsider allowing him a station … until we can control him.”
“And yet the Old Bitch of the Sea spoke to him. Have you ever addressed our totem, High Captain?” asked Tomas Red Fang. “I’ll spare you the embarrassment of spluttering out a reply. You haven’t.”
My father would never attack an old man, but I saw his fist clench, as if he wanted to respond with his blade. If he killed the spirit-master, Lord Ulric would kill him. I saw him think about it, his face showing me a tapestry of internal debate. He just nodded, gritting his teeth. In the past, he’d have waited and taken his anger out on me.
“Tense,” I said, more as an expression of my own feelings.
“Indeed,” said Vikon Blood. “Perhaps we should merely welcome you to the hold, congratulate you on rising to be a Sea Wolf, assign you to a ship, warn you about getting a big head and …” He waved his hand. “Send you on your way.”
“Put him on a ship,” said Lord Ulric. “The totem’s presence is enough for me. We shouldn’t ignore such an omen. Training or no, let us find out if he can be a Sea Wolf. Cold Man gets back in a few weeks.”
My father groaned and I twitched. I didn’t tell them what the Old Bitch of the Sea had said, and none of them asked. But the words stuck with me.