Songs of the Earth (13 page)

It felt good to be doing something physical again. The patterns
of the solo sword-forms had a grace and rhythm to them that was almost like dancing and he knew the steps so well that he could concentrate on each move without worrying about what came next. With every step he grew more aware of how he was breathing, the ways his muscles were bunching and sliding as the longsword flashed silver under the sun. He did not have to think, and, most importantly, he did not have to remember.

When his shadow reached the foot of the port bulwark, he noticed Alderan leaning against the mast, watching him. He finished the form and stepped back, bringing his feet together and raising the blade to the salute. The old man acknowledged it with a dip of his head, then threw him a towel.

Next morning, Gair was as stiff as if he’d been beaten with staves, and every muscle protested when he moved. Selenas would surely laugh at how unfit he had become, if he could but see him. After breakfast, though, he was back on the after-deck, a scrap of bandage protecting his scarred hand, shaking off the rustiness of a night’s sleep.

They discovered early on in their voyage that Skeff subsisted almost entirely on bacon and cheap brandy, with only a little bread or a few beans for variety. Alderan muttered something about nutritional values and on the evening of the second day waded ashore to cut a whippy sapling for a fishing pole. With the aid of a hook and line from his saddlebags, he trawled the barge’s wake for alternative fare. His efforts had not yielded anything much bigger than a fingerling so far, but he had hopes. Anything, he said, was better than more bacon, even with Syfrian hot mustard.

The third day on the barge was much the same as the first and second. Towards the end of the afternoon, Alderan came up with a towel before Gair had finished his exercises.

‘I’m not done yet,’ he panted, mopping his face.

‘I know. Keep practising, but I thought I should let you know that we’re not alone.’

‘What do you mean?’

Alderan’s head inclined fractionally towards the starboard railing. ‘Under the trees, over there. Someone’s taking an interest.’

Gair glanced at the far bank. A large shadow flickered through the trees, pacing the ponderous barge. ‘Looks like a man on horseback. A traveller?’

‘Maybe, but the highway is three miles from the river, hereabouts. There’re just farms for leagues in all directions.’

‘Could be a farmer?’

‘How many farmers do you know who carry swords?’

‘How can you see that from here? He must be a quarter of a mile away.’

‘Every once in a while the hilt flashes. There’s probably a chunk of glass in the pommel, cut to look like a gemstone. It’s the sort of thing footpads and the like are impressed by.’

‘Brigands?’

The old man shrugged. ‘Haven’t a clue. But he’s been pacing us for the last couple of miles, so it will do us no harm to be cautious. I’ll warn Skeff.’

Nothing happened for the rest of that day and their night’s sleep, with the
Rose
moored to a tree, was undisturbed. In the morning Gair resumed his practice. Both he and Alderan kept a discreet eye on the bank, but their shadow did not reappear.

That night brought a sprinkling of rain, but it was barely enough to dampen the decking and dried quickly with the breeze. Gair fell asleep not long after. He was woken by the firm pressure of a finger in his ribs. He opened his eyes and saw Alderan watching him from his blankets, his face illuminated by the faintest hazy moonlight. The old man slowly raised the finger to his lips for silence, then pointed towards the bank on the starboard side. His movements were so lazy and unobtrusive that they could have been made by a man stirring in his sleep.

Gair let his eyes drift almost closed and looked at the near bank. Men moved amongst the trees. If he listened closely he could hear the creak of saddle-harness above the slap and gurgle of the river. He counted the indistinct shapes, then carefully extended eight fingers. Alderan gave him a barely perceptible nod.

Eight brigands, probably armed, against two men and a drunk. And Toby. The dog was asleep, pressed into the back of Gair’s legs. It could be worse. He cocked an ear to the rasping snores coming from the wheelhouse and wondered how much worse was worse.

And then he felt it: a brief, buzzing discord that swept over him like the brush of a nettle against bare skin, hardly a touch at all, but leaving his magic prickling in its wake. He flinched before he could stop himself. Alderan frowned. All Gair could do was tilt up his branded palm and hope the old man knew what he meant.

On the bank the furtive movements continued, followed by the sounds of at least one person wading carefully into the river. It was not especially deep here; the
Trader Rose
was broad, but she had a shallow draught like most river craft, and was moored only about fifteen yards from the bank. Gair, concentrating on listening to the brigands’ progress, barely heard Alderan whisper to close his eyes.

A few seconds later a sulphurous flare arced up from the mainmast head to flood the deck, river and forested bank with harsh yellow light. Bowstrings twanged and arrows sprouted from the furled mainsail and the wheelhouse roof. Toby leapt to his feet, barking furiously.

‘Fetch Skeff!’ Alderan shouted. ‘I’ll try to distract them!’

Gair scuttled along the deck, keeping close to the cover of the bulwark, and entered the wheelhouse where Skeff was still snoring, wrapped in greasy blankets. Gair grabbed the bargee’s shoulder and shook him hard. He surfaced groggily, belching a foul fug into Gair’s face, his leather bottle tumbling to the deck with a slosh. He understood the word ‘attack’ only at the third attempt, then he staggered up and groped under his bunk. When
he produced a worn bow and quiver of plain arrows, Gair offered up a small prayer; there was no way, soused as he was, Skeff would ever be able to shoot straight.

‘Thank you,’ he said, and snatched them from him.

He took cover behind the wheelhouse and quickly strung the bow. It was decent enough yew, if poorly cared for, and shorter than the bows to which he was accustomed, so he could draw it without difficulty, even with a less than perfect hand. Nocking an arrow, he leaned round the edge of the wheelhouse to pick his first mark. The flare was drifting slowly downwards, but it illuminated the figures wading out from the bank surprisingly well. They made perfect targets.

Gair swallowed as he drew the string back. He had never fired at any living thing bigger than woodcock before, and he was loath to start now. He aimed for the clear water between the legs of one of the men to give him a fright and loosed. His aim was off, or the shaft was crooked; the arrow buried itself in the meat of the man’s thigh and he went down, floundering and choking in the water. His companion turned to see what was happening and Gair’s next arrow whipped past his cheek. With a yelp the man clapped a hand to his face. As Gair stooped for another shaft, an arrow struck splinters from the edge of the wheelhouse right in front of him. Now he had become a target.

Two more men waded into the river, long knives glinting, as the more severely wounded of the first two hobbled ashore. They advanced purposefully towards the mainmast shrouds amidships.

Gair caught a glimpse of a pale, foxy face, hiding back in the trees. ‘The witchfinder!’

‘You sure?’

Aiming quickly, Gair loosed another arrow towards where he’d seen the seeker. The face disappeared, but he couldn’t be sure he’d hit anything. ‘I’m sure!’

Alderan swore. ‘Get some way on her!’ he yelled. ‘Don’t let them aboard!’

Skeff had found an axe and as he reeled towards the stern anchor arrows sprouted at his feet.

Darting back behind the wheelhouse, Gair turned his aim on the archers on the shore. He could not see much amongst the trees, but he let fly and his second shaft resulted in a cry of pain, confirming he had found a target. In fact, he had possibly killed a man. A Leahn longbow could put an arrow through plate-armour at two hundred paces; this was shorter by a foot or more, but even a shortbow was deadly at a range of no more than twenty-five yards. He nocked, drew and let fly again. He had no time to dwell on it.

The bargee had reached the stern rail and was hacking at the tough hemp of the anchor rope. On the riverbank, the archer shifted his aim again, this time to Alderan, but the feathered shafts missed, burying their heads in the far bulwark instead. Gair aimed for the source and loosed three arrows in quick succession. None came in reply.

In the water, the three men had reached the shrouds. The bow would be next to useless at close quarters, so Gair dropped it and ran for his sword. It was unsheathed and in his hand as the first arm appeared over the bulwark. He brought the flat of the heavy blade down hard.

Bone snapped.

The man fell back shrieking, but two others were already climbing over the bulwark. Gair was joined by Alderan, and a few solid blows from the stout oak belaying pin he was wielding soon persuaded the remaining brigands that the
Rose
had thorns.

Astern, Skeff finally succeeded in severing the anchor rope and as the barge drifted into the current Alderan ran to the halyards to raise the mainsail. Behind him, Skeff weaved over to let out the boom and catch the wind, then the stubby little barge was under way. A few desultory curses and a stray arrow followed her, but as the flare finally hit the surface of the river and fizzled out, there was nothing to be seen of the remaining brigands.

‘That was close.’ Alderan drew a deep breath and raked his hair back off his face.

‘Do you think it was the same band who had a man watching us the other day?’ Gair asked.

‘Probably. They’ve been known to scout the river, looking for prey.’ Alderan tossed the belaying pin up, caught it and dropped it back into the pinrail. ‘But then there’s the seeker to consider. Are you absolutely sure that was who you saw?’

‘I’m positive. I felt him before they tried to come aboard. He’s gone now.’

‘Or dead – though that may be too much to hope for.’ The old man blew out a sigh and scratched at his beard. Something caught his eye in the scuppers and he picked up a worn washleather purse.

Gair heard the distinctive chink of coin. ‘What’s that?’

‘I think one of those fellows dropped it when we were helping them back over the side.’

Alderan loosened the strings and poured some coins into his palm. Fat silver marks, the Holy Oak stamped into each one, winked at him. His eyebrows rose. ‘Well. That fair sours the cream, now, doesn’t it?’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t have expected to see that many oakmarks this far from Dremen.’ He tipped the coins back and fastened the purse. ‘So Goran’s little pet is off the leash, with a pocketful of coin to ensure he can complete his task. I’m guessing he hired those thugs so that when our corpses floated downstream we’d look like two more unfortunates who’d fallen victim to bandits. Nasty business.’

He sucked his teeth, bouncing the leather bag in his palm. Then he held it out. ‘Here. A man should always have some coin in his pockets. Besides, I reckon you’ll put it to better use than he would have.’

Gair took the purse. The weight surprised him.

The old man gave him a wolfish grin. ‘Just as well you never got round to swearing the vow of poverty, eh?’

‘Do you think they’ll come after us again?’

‘No, this was their last chance. We’re too close to the bigger towns; it’s not good country for footpads. Too great a risk of being observed the further south we head.’

Gair realised he was still holding his sword and slid it back into its scabbard. He felt a little sick now, and the wind made him shiver.

‘I hope so. I don’t really enjoy hurting people.’

‘That’s odd, coming from someone who’s spent the last decade learning how to chop them into little pieces.’

Gair folded his arms over his queasy stomach. ‘Quintains don’t scream.’

Skeff trudged towards them, plucking at the ragged end of the anchor rope.

‘Cost me forty shillin’, that anchor,’ he mumbled, hiccoughing. ‘Now I’ll have to buy ’un all over again.’