Craig Saunders - Tides of Rythe

“We have no choice, either way,” said Shorn. “If we fight we will never make it back to land. And we cannot run. We need them on our side, or we might as well throw ourselves into the sea and take our chances with the fishes.”

“Oh, no, I don’t think I want to do that. Not again,” said Drun, and folded his arms across his chest to wait.

They were fed well. Fish stew, mushrooms, which grew on the bark of the Ulian, and seeds. Sometimes there were mussels, which lived on the base of the boat — one of their captors, Gian, told them they dived and harvested the mussels. The seafarers could hold their breath for longer than most ordinary men, but Renir saw no gills. They were, after all, just men.

“Grilled fish, today. I wonder, they must have metal aboard, or else what would they hold their fires on, and what do you think they burn? I’m sure they wouldn’t burn their precious trees.”

Shorn barked a laugh. “Yes, they have metal. But are you sure you want to know what they burn?”

“Now you’ve said that, I’m not sure at all. Hertha always said my curiosity would get me in hot water. What do they burn then?”

Drun noticed the hesitation when Renir spoke of Hertha, but he said nothing. It was not his place to intrude, although, he had to admit to himself, that did not often stop him.

“Their waste. Nothing is thrown out on a seafarer’s boat. They dry it and burn it. Also, you’ve be surprised what grows on a seafarer’s boat.”

Renir gagged, his face paling even here, in the shadows of their cell.

“Oh, don’t worry, it burns hot and adds no flavour. Besides, you should be thankful. They don’t often cook. Usually they eat their food raw. If anything, we’re eating better than they are tonight.”

“I’d rather eat what their eating, if that’s the case, and thank you very much for spoiling my stew.”

“You’ll soon learn to eat what your given, lad,” said Bourninund, patting Renir gently on the shoulder. “A fighting man can’t afford to be choosy. Besides, it would just make you soft.”

“Shush,” whispered Wen. “They are coming.”

Renir could hear nothing at first, but slowly became aware of soft footfalls approaching along the corridor to the cells. He had been able to make out little of the boat on his way to incarceration, but it seemed they had been led to the south side of the boat — through what he could only describe as a village. There had been houses along the way, and crops of mushrooms growing, as though the seafarers were imitating a landfarer farm. He made out a clothier, with rolls of cloth hanging under an awning. The bones of some gigantic fish held the roof of one dwelling open, again covered in some canvas like material — perhaps a gathering hall, or a theatre of sorts, he could not tell. Their strange trees grew out of each other, some tall, some short, but evidence of human hands in what should have been the chaos of nature in the way they grew. Tunnels between the mighty trunks were evident, as were pathways and groves. Flowers grew in the canopies above, and seabirds nested. Perhaps they farmed eggs, and slaughtered the birds when they got old, as one would a chicken. He saw no other evidence of life, save the Seafarers themselves, who came to watch them paraded on their way to captivity, ushered on by men bearing bows and, unless Renir missed his mark, arrows tipped with razor sharp teeth. No doubt these, too, came from some deep sea beast he had never had the misfortune to cross.

He had heard tales of such creatures, from the Leviathans that prowled the sea under the lands, to the seawolves, whose teeth grew as long as daggers. It was said if just a scratch was received from a seawolf’s teeth, that it would bleed, an unstaunchable flow until the victim bled to death. They were just some of the tales he heard tell — like the many-armed sea snail, puffershrooms, gransalds and wailing fish, he even heard tell of fish that could fly, and mount the land, people that could breath underwater but who had fins instead of hands and feet…tales of the sea were endless, and old fishermen were fools for them, but he was beginning to think that perhaps there was a shred of truth in the old tales.

In the dim light outside their cells Renir was aware that the footfalls had halted, and that there was a woman, quietly watching them. The bar outside the door was lifted, and a stunningly attractive woman entered. The men all straightened their backs and puffed their chests out, apart from Shorn who sniffed and shook his head.

“I should have known you’d want to come and gloat,” he said, his eyes blazing with the anger that had fuelled him for so long.

“What, no kiss, no lover’s whispers for your wife?”

Renir dribbled some stew onto his shirt. Wife? What other secrets do we keep from each other, even now, so far along the road?

“You’re not my wife, Shiandra, and you never were. I told you then as I tell you now, we were not wed, and I would not wed you. Now, slither back to your cave and leave us to court, I will plead our case there, but I won’t plead to you.”

Faced with such ire Shiandra merely smiled sweetly and pouted. “I wanted you then, but if you will not hold to your oath, then perhaps you should face the justice of the sea. But I am more forgiving than the ocean, Shorn. I would take you back. You only have to ask.”

“You always were a hard bargainer, Shiandra,” said Wen, through gritted teeth. “Give her what she wants, Shorn, and be done with it.”

“Never!” Shorn leapt from his cot and took her round the neck. Renir leapt too, and took hold of Shorn’s arm, trying to free the woman — whether she was the reason for their captivity or not, Renir could see that throttling her would not get them out alive. Bourninund joined him, holding Shorn around the chest, while Renir struggled with the mercenary’s vice-like grip — it was like wrestling a bull. The strength in Shorn’s good arm was phenomenal, his grip like granite.

“Stop!” cried Drun, seeing that they could not break Shorn’s grip. Shiandra was turning blue, scratching futility at Shorn’s iron grip, soft choking sounds coming from her throat.

Where Renir and Bourninund could not move him, the power in Drun’s age cracked voice could.

Shorn pushed the woman away from him in disgust. She gagged and rubbed her throat, once sweet eyes now filled with murderous intent. Her voice still raw from being strangled, nevertheless she managed to speak.

“I will see you meat for the seawolves, my love. Meat.” This last she spat, and turned on her heel. She pulled the bar back down across their door, and the last sound as she stormed away was her laboured breathing, gradually fading. Only when she had gone did he hear Shorn’s breathing, heavy with rage. Bourninund carefully let him go, backing away. Sometimes there was no telling what Shorn’s rage would make him do, but he merely threw himself down on the cot and buried his head in his hands.

Renir left him alone for a long time, wondering how long it would be prudent to let him stew, his curiosity, and his sense of self preservation, growing in him all the time. Eventually, he could stand to wait no longer.

“What was all that about then?”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Renir. Let me alone.”

“We need to know, Shorn,” said Bourninund solicitously. “We need to make it out of here alive, and I’m not just saying that because I like my skin. We have a job to do, and we can’t very well do it inside a seawolf’s stomach.”

“I said I don’t want to talk about, and I won’t,” Shorn said through gritted teeth, his eyes burning with fury.

Wen sighed. “If you’re going to be a baby about it, I’ll tell them.”