The ship pitches with the billows, and Guiromélans concentrates on blending his breathing with their uncertain rhythm.  This cabin, and the ship as a whole, have become a much more quiet place since they ran out of fuel and their engine failed.  Holding the blade of his saber in his trembling hands, he bows his head in deep prayer.  He prays for guidance, for strength, and for wisdom.  What is it he needs to do to hold this struggling crew together?  What is it he can do?

More and more time has he spent in his cabin in deep reflection.  When he does venture outside, the ennui of shipboard life draws him inexorably towards the communal drinking barrel and the beguiling EroBernac whiskey it contains.  It is at these times that Guiromélans finds his only peace.  He finds himself retreating into prayer and alcohol more and more often.  As his life continues to spiral out of control—and his personal purity remains in doubt—he consigns himself either to the scorching judgment of God’s spirit or the languid embrace of the spirits of man.

Which is worse?  A drunken Captain or an absent one?

Which is better?

Perhaps it is not relevant, as he is no longer relevant.  When they ran out of coal days ago, all that remained to drive the Knight’s Torment were her mildewed sails.  The relentless winds have since torn them to tatters, and now there is nothing to prevent the tempest from driving the helpless ship ever southward.  Any settlements of Medianist heresy known to Guiromélans are now far out of their reach, and no targets of opportunity have presented themselves.  It has only been through the skills of Radla, the ship’s moritex, that they have managed to avoid running aground upon the countless reefs, shoals, and shallows of the Weaning Shores.  The crew’s votes aside, the Knight’s Torment is now in his hands, not Mogens’s and not Guiromélans’s.

Food and water are running out—they have no coal, no replacement sails—and equipment and supplies for repairs are dwindling.  Without a sorcerer on board to keep them healthy, scurvy is beginning to run rampant among the crew.  If this were a proper Seven Kingdoms vessel, the problems would be solved with a simple layover in one of the many nearby Muttese ports of call—Niujis Baúrgs, Rostig Thron, or Bleeding Maidens—and succulent, Synesi oranges for everyone.  But this is a raider ship, crewed by luct-marvos outcasts.  No reputable port will take them, and Guiromélans has already killed their sorcerer.

Foraging on the islands is suicidal, if not impossible.  Of the thousands of Weaning Shores islands they pass every day, perhaps one in a hundred are large enough to support trees, game, and fresh water, and of those, none so far appear to have had any safe beaches for landing.  No villages have been sighted for days, and the closest port Radla knows of is a corrupt paqa trading auberge 4 days hence.  With the ship and crew in such a vulnerable state, Guiromélans feels it foolhardy to risk the trip.  Nevertheless, he has had no other choice but to order Radla to set course for it.  He can only pray the prevailing winds will carry them there.

Guiromélans prays hard.  For every step towards salvation he tries to take, he seems to take two backwards to damnation.  It is the same as when he tried to save the soul of his blessed, beautiful witch, Esmeree.  Efforts that ended with his invasion of the Bracklands.  Efforts that ended with his defeat at her hands.

Guiromélans’s body shakes with shame as the memories come unbidden, overwhelming his composure, devastating his serenity.  Memories of the defenders’ castle walls shattering beneath the power of his cannon.  Memories of the desperate hand-to-hand battles within the rubble, defenders falling at every turn, victory almost in his grasp.  The renegade Bracks fought bravely—they knew they were defeated—but they also had faith their witch-queen would save them.

What would he have done had he caught her?  Killed her?  Dragged her to Ehre in chains for the Harvest Festival’s Burning Time?  Would he have loved her?  Sacrificed all that he is, all that he knows, and fled with her deeper into the Bracklands?  Perhaps they could have made a life for themselves among the Docile Tribes?  It would have meant the end of everything he was, everything he believed in, but at least he would have had her.

Was that what finally drove her to that final damning act?  Did his desire finally drive her into the embrace of Gock?  For, at the brink of defeat, she completed her ultimate summoning, and without warning, the sky split open, and the storms began.  The wrecked land was covered with a blanket of driving rain.

Guiromélans remembers that moment well.  At the time, he did not know the storms were of her design, and in that downpour, he stalked the ruins, killing at will.

What was he looking for?

He sought the witch, for even at that moment, perhaps he still hoped to save her.  Even as she took up the asp’s sword.  Even as he embraced Rixueramos Naw in battle, and sweet Esmeree sacrificed her own body to save his.  Even as the alfs rose from the moistened soil, and Esmeree resurrected the spirit of her slain daughter.  Guiromélans hoped to save her, and yet, with every act, he seemed to drive her deeper into damnation.

Guiromélans sobs pathetically.  Just as he is now, he was then a prisoner of fate, a prisoner of his own failures.

“Anyone who loves is a prisoner.”

The revelation fills him with warmth.  The voice was his own, soft, comforting, but it came unbidden to his lips.  Love?  Can love be the answer?

Slowly, his porthole lightens as God’ fiery Eye rises above the sea and a new day dawns.  Briefly, a rainbow illuminates the kneeling knight before the rains begin again.

Calm returns to him, even as his cabin once again falls into shadow, even as he hears the footsteps outside his door and the fists pound desperately for his attention.

Guiromélans sighs deeply.  “Let the steel of my blade be the arc of Thy Median,” he intones.  “Let the strength of my bone and body be the arc of Thy Median.  Let Thy spirit and power join them in Thy Median.  Êtqra.”

The pounding at his door continues.  Slowly, he opens his eyes.  Now to see what his crew needs of him.

 

The scrap of leather lays untouched on the deck.  No one man seems willing to approach it.  The circle of sailors warily keeps their distance, watching it as if it were a dangerous animal.

At Guiromélans’s hurried arrival, the Bracks part, holding him with their expectant eyes.  By the panicked report of the sailors at his door, he’d have thought the ship was sinking.  Walking to the center of the circle, he stares down at the object.  It is a piece of animal hide—shorthaired and dull brown in color—and nearly large enough to cover a jousting shield.  It looks like it could have come from a cow, except its hair is thicker and wirier.  Crouching, he turns it over and feels its rough surface.  His men recoil at the touch, as though such contact would bode disaster for the entire ship.  Beneath the rough surface hairs, there is a layer of thick, soft down.  It is uncured hide, the backside bloody and bearing remnants of fat and flesh.  He can still smell the animal’s stink of manure and urine.

The sheet of skin is a rather innocuous object and hardly worthy of such panic—especially among hardened warriors such as these—except there is no explaining how such a thing could have appeared on board this ship at sea.

The ominous symbol burned into its surface is cause for some concern as well.  Guiromélans’s fingers trace its lines.  The edges are crusted with burnt flesh and blood.  He suspects it was made while the animal was still alive.  A brand of some sort?  Surely, no one would have need of a brand this large!

“Sorry tä rouse yä, Captain, uh?” Mogens snarls sarcastically.  “What thinks yä?  Fell from the sky in the night, yäh?”

Guiromélans blinks up at the cloud-swollen sky and tries to imagine a bird carrying the weight of the skin across the night-darkened sea and dropping it on the deck.  “No, I don’t think so.”

“Then it must have been one of the crew?” Moritex Radla asks in his thick Mynyddi accent.  Guiromélans notes how he stares at the rune with intense anxiety.

Guiromélans measures his words carefully as he turns the hide over in his hands.  Radla is the only man onboard who truly knows how to pilot this ship—only he knows the paths of the sun and the stars, the safe passages between the major ports, and how to wield the unfathomable cross-staff—and thus far, he has remained enigmatic in the power struggle between Guiromélans and Mogens.  Until he makes his position known, Guiromélans can hardly afford to insult him.

“I don’t think so,” he answers at last, “The skin is too fresh.  Had it been kept by one among our crew, it would have either had been cured or it would have rotted away by now.”  Guiromélans brings the skin to his nose and inhales deeply.  “This animal was slaughtered no more than a day ago, maybe 2.”

The Navigator scratches at his trimmed beard as he considers this.  Unlike a Brack, the Moritex keeps his beard trimmed short.  His face is scarred in the Mynyddi fashion.

“Dusios,” Mogens hisses with certainty.  The Bracks around him murmur with dismay, several uttering brief prayers to Johlpa, Aelle, or Huth-Gadtham.  Guiromélans grimaces.  More often than not, the Quartermaster’s thoughtless comments make matters worse rather than better.

Balen materializes next to Guiromélans, dutifully handing him his morning cup of whiskey.  Mogens sneers with irritation as the boy slinks away.  Guiromélans drinks deeply, feeling its comforting burn run through his body.

“What is it?” Master Carpenter Adalgis asks.

Guiromélans runs his hand over the wiry pelt.  “Cow?” he wonders as he finishes the cup, “It’s a little heavy for that.”  He looks closer at the symbol burned into the skin.  Its lines are harsh and abrupt, nearly geometrical.  “This looks like a Söderkarl rune, though.”

“Söderkarl?” Mogens snorts.

Guiromélans looks up at him.  “We are in the Weaning Shores, Quartermaster.”

“Yä has been wagin’ war against the boduus Thunderer cults,” Bo’s’n Abandinus observes.  “Perhaps it was yer damn crusade brought them down upon us, uh?”

Guiromélans looks at him reflectively.  “That is possible,” he admits.

Rising, he addresses the assembled men.  “How many non-Bracks are with this crew?”

The sailors shuffle about and then part, isolating four men from the others.  Radla is among them.  The men take nervous steps backwards.  Three are probably of EroBernac or Palpi blood—though they have done their best to look and act Brackish—but Radla has always looked and dressed unabashedly Mynyddi.  He bristles at Guiromélans’s stare.

“It ist as jûs said!” Radla demands, “None of us could have brought that damn thing aboard!”

Guiromélans raises his hand to calm the man.  “I seek not to accuse you, Radla.  But you are Mynyddi, and perhaps you know what this rune means?  Know you anything about the Thunderer heresies?”

Radla’s face darkens behind its ritualistic scars.  “Jâ, I know of the Thunderer cults, but I follow Aelle now.  I follow Aelle only!”

Slowly, Guiromélans turns the rune towards the Moritex.  “But you were a Mynyddi jûrinîkas first.  You know the folklore of the Söderkarl, you’ve learned of the godar’s Futhark, if for no other reason than to laugh and make light of their superstitions, yes?  Tell me.  What does this symbol mean?”

Radla’s mouth twists with distaste.  “Ist a sea-rune, jâ?  A death-rune.  Ist warns of dark days ahead.”  He stares up at the rain.  “Ist means storms, worst than before, worst than ever.  Ist means ill luck, ill fate for this ship.  Ist means drowning and cold deaths for this crew.”

“Buachar!” Bo’s’n Abandinus bellows with outrage.  “This ship is protected by Aelle, yäh?  Na scrap of cow skin can change that!”

“Elfajzott!  Jûs don’t understand!” Radla pleads.  “This ist ne cow hide!  This ist from aurauchs!  This ist runa magic!  Cast by a häxa!  T’was ne bird or man that brought this aboard!  Was the häxa’s Disir that brought it—his spirits of vengeance—and this zhip ist cursed!”

“Then we’ll makes the sacrifices tä Aelle!” Mogens assures, “and makes our pleas tä Johlpa and appease those spirits!  Perhaps at last these seas’ll calm!”

Guiromélans shakes his head.  “This ship is in southern seas now, Quartermaster, and Johlpa’s a long ways away.”

“Then what do yä propose, uh?”

Guiromélans looks around him.  “Unless you see this häxa witch standing within bow or rifle range, I propose we do nothing.  Stay on our course.  Repair and resupply when the opportunity presents itself.  Bide our time.”

“What?”

Guiromélans waves the skin at Mogens.  “This is but a warning, Quartermaster.  Meant to do no more than frighten us.  We don’t know where this häxa is or what he’s planning.  All we can do is wait.  Wait until he shows himself.”

“And then what?” Adalgis asks.

Guiromélans throws the skin overboard.  “And then we kill him.”

* * *

Perhaps the häxa’s reach is longer than he thought.  Guiromélans reflects on the events of the past couple days as he clings to the crow’s nest and scans the nearby island shoreline.  The crew held its ceremony to Aelle—and even Guiromélans participated as much as his Medianist sensibilities would allow—yet it seemed to do little good.  As the days passed since finding the rune, bad omens and accidents have endlessly plagued the Knight’s Torment and her crew.

The storms and winds have driven the ship relentlessly, driving them further off course, deeper into the treacherous Weaning Shores.  So far, they have been frustrated in their attempts to make any progress towards Radla’s paqa outpost.  Instead, the storms have bounced them up and down through these islands, threatening to wreck them countless times.  As a result, leaks in the hull are forming everywhere, and they have run out of tar and pitch to seal them.

Fish have been plentiful within the shallows of the Weaning Shores, but something has damaged the morwr’s nets and lines.  Great holes gape in the nets, and the lines are tangled and frayed.  The crew has caught no fresh food in days.

To make matters worse, inexplicably, their barrels of fresh water and hardtack have been polluted by something black, slimy, and foul-smelling, leaving little for the crew to eat and drink beyond the whiskey of the communal barrel.  A mixed blessing as far as Guiromélans is concerned.

And to top it off, in the darkness of yester night, a sailor was lost to the Sea as he fell from the rigging.  All of the crew, above and below decks, heard the surprised cry, the brief struggle, and then the inhuman shrieks of victory echoing from the darkness as the man disappeared into the black water.

The crew is terrified.  The ship is a wreck.  Guiromélans himself has sensed a change in the tenor of the vessel, almost as if a new presence has joined them.  Could Radla’s fears of these Disir really be valid?

He supposes it is fortunate that they have at last found this small sheltering island.  It is of modest size, grassy with tree-filled valleys and rocky coasts.  The storm seemed to ease at their approach, allowing them just enough time to find a single, small stretch of accessible shore before it picked up again.  From his vantage point on the mast, Guiromélans eyes the beach, trying to decide if landing here is worth the risk.  A tiny, ancient dock bobs in the water, though there are no boats moored to it.  Of little sand, the beach appears to be mostly rock and mud, with strange trees and shrubs growing right down to the surf in some places.  He isn’t experienced in the way of sailing, but this doesn’t seem to be the ideal place to beach a ship of this size.  If the weather was calmer, and the ship’s engines operable, and the beach larger and cleaner, they might have made the attempt.

He scans the hills and trees for signs of life, hoping to catch a glimpse of swine or game fowl or even indications of current human habitation.  Unfortunately, at this distance, he can see nothing other than the abandoned dock, though there does seem to be some kind of trail winding its way through the grassy hills.

Sighing inwardly, he realizes God probably won’t present many more opportunities better than this.  He climbs down the mast and signals to the crew to begin plans for a landing.  Taking advantage of a lull in the winds, he helps the crew drop the anchors.  Seconds later, he feels them bite into the bay’s floor.  The Knight’s Torment drifts a few yards and then seems to settle.

Bo’s’n Abandinus watches the anchor tethers warily and then eyes the nearby shore.  “They may hold.  They may not,” he states bluntly, “‘Tis yer choice tä goes ashore, but if the winds blow us away, we can’t comes back fer yä.”

Guiromélans looks at Mogens.  “I don’t see much of a choice.”

“Yäh,” the Quartermaster nods, “We’ll breakout the side arms and goes ashore in the longboat.”

Adalgis steps forward, “Cathubodua, I have a proposal fer yä tä consider.”

Guiromélans raises his eyebrows, “What is it?”

The Master Carpenter nods down towards the hold.  “We’re leakin’ like a well-fucked bna down there.  I says, if we find good supplies, we careen on that beach and make repairs.”

Guiromélans frowns.  “Beach the ship?  How?  I thought—”

“We run lines from the ship tä the beach,” snaps Bo’s’n Abandinus, obviously impatient with Guiromélans’s ignorance, “and we pull her ashore!  These things yä can does with a ship of this size.”

Guiromélans nods with understanding.  “That might be a good idea anyway.  If we find any kind of supplies here, we might want to stay a while, and it would be nice not to have to worry about the ship losing her anchors.”

He looks around at the rest of the crew.  “Take a vote on it?”

A quick count is taken, and Adalgis’s suggestion is accepted.  “Very well,” Guiromélans says, rubbing his hands against his jacket for warmth.  The rains over this island are strangely cold.  “We go ashore.  We look for game, we look for lumber, we look for water.”  He looks to the other officers.  “Anything else?”

“Coal,” Chief Mechanic Gofannon mutters.  “Yä’d like tä get the engines runnin’ again, yäh?”

“I’m not sure we’ll have much luck finding that, but—”

“And we needs pitch,” Adalgis adds, “or at least the wood tä make it.”

“And cloth fer sails,” Sail Master Bellatumarus says.

Guiromélans nods, “Agreed.  All are good to have if we can find them.”

“And what if we finds people?” Caidryn asks from the crowd.

Guiromélans looks pointedly at Mogens, “We be friendly to them… at least until I meet them.  We’re not to make enemies here, right?”

Mogens simply smiles.  “Unless they’re enemies already, yäh?”

Guiromélans’s eyes narrow.  “Quartermaster, break out the side arms, and make sure to arm yourself.”  Before Mogens can utter a surprised retort, Guiromélans adds, “You and I are going ashore with the first boat.”

Sneering, Mogens leaves to distribute the weapons.

Guiromélans is about to fetch his own when he finds Balen standing nearby, his pistol and saber already in his hands.  Smiling, Guiromélans pats him on the head.

 

By the time Guiromélans realizes Caidryn and Balen are on the first boat with him, it was too late to turn them away.

The eight occupants of the boat take to the oars, pulling hard against the wind and waves.  As he rows, Guiromélans finds his attention continually drawn to the Brackish girl.  Sitting in front of him, he can watch the muscles of her back and arms strain as she works to keep up with the men.  He is pleased he had that conversation with Mogens regarding the bay drug.  Since then, she has been looking much better, her skin and hair regaining their original, dark luster, and her mood has improved from frail and nasty to simply nasty.

Somehow, she senses his stare.  Turning in her seat, she angrily flashes the sign of the fig at him.  Guiromélans can only smile and shake his head.

The darkened clouds above seem to cling to this island, making the day seem later than it really is, and Guiromélans keeps instinctually checking the sky to make sure the sun isn’t setting.  The midday sun glows weakly through the storm clouds overhead.

Stepping onto the muddy shores is an experience unto itself.  When standing on its soil, the character of this place is very different far what it appears to be onboard the ship.  Breezes suggesting whispers and dark laughter tickle the ears.  The black recesses between trees and shrubs suggest movement everywhere.  His skin trembles as though icy hands were caressing it beneath his clothes.  All around him, Guiromélans senses malice and fear.

“Och fi!” a sailor moans as he wades from the surf.  “What kind of place is this?”

“Certainly the pit of Cassibodua!” Mogens snarls.

“Enough!” Guiromélans snaps as he helps the others pull the longboat ashore.  “That isn’t helping, Mogens!”

“This place is evil, boduus!” the Brack yells.  “We are not welcome here!  I feels it!”

Though he doesn’t want to, Guiromélans has to agree.

“What are you proposing, Quartermaster?” he asks.  “That we leave?  Abandon this island and its food and its shelter and its water?  You seem to forget that the Sea and the storm are being just as unkind!”

“The Sea and the storm are not possessed by dusios as this place is!  Filled with ysbryds it is!”

Guiromélans closes quickly with the Brack.  “What’s the matter, Mogens,” he hisses quietly.  “Are you afraid?”

The Quartermaster’s lip curls with contempt, “I fear nothing but that the sky might fall upon me.”

“Good!” Guiromélans shouts, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Then you’re not afraid of this island!”

He turns back to the Master Carpenter, “Adalgis, pick one man and return to the ship.  Begin bringing the others ashore and making preparations to careen her here.”

He looks at Caidryn and the others.  “The rest of us should divide into two groups of three.  I’ll take my group up the north shore.”  He looks at Mogens, “You take yours south.”

Mogens hesitates and then smiles.  “Yäh!  I’ll do that!”

Grabbing the two sailors nearest him, he turns and shoves them down the beach.  When Guiromélans turns back to the others, he is surprised to realize that only Caidryn and Balen remain.  Adalgis and the last man are already pushing the longboat back into the water.

Caidryn crosses her arms and smiles nastily.  “Not exactly who yä were hopin’ fer?”

Guiromélans smiles reluctantly.  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

 

“Gock-damned Mogens,” Caidryn moans as they march along the muddy beach.  “Leavin’ me tä travel with this boduus!”

“Huh,” Guiromélans remarks, “You saying you’d rather be with him right now?”

Caidryn reflects on this for a moment as she helps Balen scramble up an incline.  Beyond, a stream of water bubbles weakly through moss and brush.  They are at the mouth of one of the island’s narrow valleys.  On either side, grassy hills rise up steeply from its tree and shrubbery-choked depths.

“Nage,” she says at last.  “He’s a son-of-a-bitch too.”

“Ah,” he sighs, “At least I’m in good company then.”

She looks at him with suspicion.  “Yäh,” she says at last.  She hesitates again before asking, “Sä why don’t yä just kills the ard-vitchoor?”

Guiromélans stares in silence, momentarily taken aback by her forwardness.  “I’m not convinced,” he says at last, measuring his words carefully, “that he deserves to be killed.  What I do know, however, is that he holds the crew together more than you might realize.  To simply kill him would mean anarchy.  The others wouldn’t accept it.”

“I would!” Caidryn declares, “as would others, I’m sure!  Probably Adalgis would.”

It is a day for surprises, Guiromélans muses.  He never would have expected such candor from the girl.  “But Abandinus and Gofannon wouldn’t,” he counters.  The Bo’s’n and Chief Mechanic are two of Mogens’s staunchest lapdogs—and two of the most important officers on board the Knight’s Torment—it would be nearly impossible to lead the ship without their support.  “They and the crew are still too suspicious of me.  I am still just an intruding boduus, as you are always quick to point out.  It wouldn’t be wise for to me force them to choose between us.  Not yet, at least.”

Guiromélans studies the way Caidryn’s face falls ever so slightly as she mulls this over.  For the first time, he notes how her hair inherits a subtle wave in the rain.  Locks cling to her cheeks and neck and darken her leather blouse.  Tiny beads hang from her eyebrows and lips.  Her rain-soaked clothes hang heavily on her trim, yet powerful, figure, the dark treasures of her bosoms hinting from her unlaced collar.  Guiromélans is surprised.  Has she always been this pretty?  Or has her freedom from the bay finally unlocked it?  He smiles slightly.  Perhaps it is the nature of this place.  Standing before him, arms crossed yet lips trembling, she is an enigma—radiant, beautiful, and vulnerable as well as frightened, scarred, and defiant—a contradiction he takes in as much with his spirit as he does with his eyes.

“Besides,” he says at last, in a tone that he hopes would dismiss both the subject of the conversation and his sudden feelings for this beauty, “The company of the Knight’s Torment has signed the Articles of Piracy, and those same rules forbid random brawling and assassination amongst the crew.”  He chuckles, “It would be in poor taste for me to claim the Captaincy based on the principles of those Articles and then be the first to break them?  Wouldn’t it?”

When Caidryn doesn’t answer, he adds, “Mogens would have to commit some kind of personal attack or insult against me, something that could not be ignored or misunderstood.  Only then could I take the kind of action that you are recommending.”

“Like choppin’ yä up in yer bed?” she counters with heat.

Guiromélans pauses and then finally nods.  “Yes, something like that.”

“Yäh!  Mogens makes the play, and yä does nothin’ in return!”

“It wasn’t Mogens that did it,” he says simply, “and the room was dark.  I choose not to learn who it really was and by whose order did he visit me.”

Caidryn’s bafflement is plain as the rage spreads across her face.  “Yä chooses not tä?” she screams, “Why the Hells not?”

“There are a number of reasons,” he answers calmly, trying to defuse this conversation before it gets any hotter.  “Some I will share with you, others I will not.”

“WHAT?”

“Mogens already knows it would be difficult to remove me by force.  And now, he knows I can’t be removed by guile either.”

“But that night, he told the entire crew—”

“That I was slain, yes,” Guiromélans agrees.  “And almost immediately, he was proven foolish, ineffectual, and untrustworthy, while the true would-be assassin now lives in fear of being exposed.  Worthy lessons for all involved, I think.”

Caidryn’s mouth hangs open.  “Were yä plannin’ all this?” she asks with betrayal and rage.  “Yä lookin’ tä work all of us?  We just a bunch of ignorant, unwashed Bracks tä yä?”

“No, Caidryn, I assure you—”

“Well, let me tell yä,” she hisses, “This cannot last, yä and Mogens, uh?  Yer goin’ tä have tä kill him, or he kills yä, and the sooner, the better!”

Guiromélans frowns.  “Why the sudden venom towards our good quartermaster?”

“Yer Captain now,” she says quickly.  “I’m just lookin’ out fer yä.”

Guiromélans stares hard at her.  So this is it, he realizes.  She wants to be free of these Bracks as badly as Balen does, and she too sees Guiromélans as the mechanism of that freedom.  She’s hoping, waiting, for the Raven to kill him for her.  This is her plea for help.

The crew is starving, frightened, marooned on this possessed island, with no easy means for their escape.  And now she is trying to instigate a rebellion.  It is unfortunate that her timing is as bad as her disposition.

Caidryn furtively avoids his stare for as long as she can.  Finally, she adds, “And there’s somethin’ he owes me.  If he gives it tä me, I fucks his crew.  Lately, he hasn’t been givin’ it tä me.  Sä I don’t fucks ‘em.”

“Ah,” Guiromélans nods with immediate understanding, “the bay.”

Her eyes widen slightly, “Yä knows?  How would yä…”  Her eyes fall on Balen, and she grows silent.  The boy has been quietly eavesdropping on their conversation, and now, he looks sheepish, unsure if she is going to strike out at him.  Rather than wait to find out, he scampers on ahead, diving into the mossy underbrush.

Guiromélans nods at the vanishing youth, “Yes, he told me about the drug.  You were sick, and he was worried about you.”

“I gets sick when I don’t gets it,” Caidryn admits.  “Mogens knows that.  He knows it’s the only way I’d fucks him and his bagaudas.  He stopped givin’ it tä me tä punish me fer backin’ yä as captain, uh?”

“I understand,” he nods sympathetically, “You were looking pretty bad for a while, but I must say, as of late, you’re looking a lot better.”

Caidryn shrugs angrily.  “I’ve felt better, I’ve felt worse.”

The trees overhead crisscross and entwine into a canopy that nearly blocks out all light.  All Guiromélans sees around him are blacks and blues and the deepest greens.  High above, something large and heavy flaps its wings as it struggles in the branches.  Damp moss and bark drift downwards.

Strange.  They didn’t see any birds when they approached this island.

“He’s giving you the bay again, then?” he asks.

“Nage,” she spits.  “Not yet.”

“Good,” Guiromélans says with satisfaction.

“What?”

“When Balen told me about your… situation, I ordered Mogens to begin giving you the bay again.  You understand?  I ordered him to give it to you.”

“Yä ordered him tä?”

“Yes.”

“He’s not goin’ tä follow na afron orders of yers!  Like an alf in heat, he’ll as likely does the opposite!”

“Yes,” Guiromélans agrees, “I know that.”

“Then why?”

“Do you still want the bay, Caidryn?”

“I don’t know…  Na any more,” she admits, “Not really.”

“Then if you don’t need it any more, maybe you shouldn’t keep your vigil on the Captain’s Bed… even if Mogens gives you the bay again.”

Her face darkens with shame and rage.  “Yä dubi-gnatos son-of-a-bitch!  Yä thinkin’ yer doin’ me favors?”

“It’s your choice, Caidryn,” he says unapologetically, “You’re welcome to start taking the bay again whenever you want.  All you have to do is tell Mogens about this conversation.  He’ll be angry and embarrassed, but I’m sure he’ll start giving it to you again.  He’ll do anything so long as it vexes my wishes.  But I hope you’ll consider this opportunity and do the smart thing.”

She levels an angry finger at him.  “Now yä listens tä me!  Don’t yä ever—”

“Caidryn!”  She is interrupted by Balen’s frightened scream.  “Cathubodua!  To me!  To meee!”

Guiromélans and Caidryn exchange worried looks and then leap after the boy.  Guiromélans’s powerful strides carry him through the clinging branches and up the rain-slickened incline.  He meets Balen coming down in the other direction and catches the terrified child as he skids in the mud.  “What is it?” he shouts, “What is it?”

Balen is silent but points a trembling finger up the hill.  Guiromélans quickly hands the boy off to Caidryn and works his way up.  He pushes his way out of the trees and draws his sword.

What could have frightened the boy so much?

Beyond are about 20 yards of grass and brambles, from the tree line to the top of the hill.  He can easily see Balen’s path up and back in the trampled grass.  Guiromélans slowly follows the trail.

“What is it?” Caidryn yells from the trees behind him.

“It’s over there!” he hears Balen’s terrified moan.  “Don’t let him go!  Don’t let him go!”

Without turning, he gestures for them to remain back and slowly walks to the top.

Guiromélans stops at what he sees.  He cannot call it anything but a piece of meat, being it is so disfigured and unrecognizable.  Hanging from some kind of totem, it is covered with a seething blanket of black flies and appears to have been recently worried and eaten at by something large.  The hooked post and the stone it is set into are stained with blood, old and new.  Evidently, this place is used often.

The stench is horrific, but nothing Guiromélans hasn’t encountered before.

The flatish top of the island is before him, cut and lined with ravines like an exposed brain.  The moors and valleys moan with the storm’s wind, forming patterns and designs in the sickly grasses.  A gust of wind blasts against his face, carrying with it the scent of rot and decay and the suggestion of whispers.

On each hill, as far as he can see, a totem stands, something black and limp hanging from each.

The scenes of decay before him do not concern him nearly as much as the gigantic cattle he sees grazing across the vista.  They seem surprisingly unaffected by the rotting flesh around them.  The nearest one pauses in her grazing to stare emptily at Guiromélans, her massive jaws steadily crewing the tough grass.  She is taller at the shoulder than he is, her horns broader than his outstretched arms.  One of her mates, a massive bull that towers even over her bulk, glares at Guiromélans and considers charging.

These are aurauchs, the same beasts as the donor of that malevolent scrap of leather.

What are the odds of that?

“That?” he hears Caidryn exclaim with disappointment and shock behind him.  “That’s what yer afraid of?”

“Nage!” the boy whines.  “I seen worse floatin’ on the Skudd!  T’was what was eatin’ it that woulda made yer tits knock!”

“What was it?” she sneers, boxing him on the ear, “Killer grass?  Giant flies?  Meat-eating cows?”

“A bird!  A big, black thing!”

“Never mind that,” Guiromélans interrupts as Caidryn slaps the boy again.  He looks at Caidryn with concern, “This island is thick with aurauchs and circle magic.  Mogens was right about this place.”

Sheathing his sword, he takes them by the arms and rushes them back down towards the shoreline.

 

Black, rainy night has fallen by the time they make it back to camp.  The narrow beach is thickly populated with Bracks and more cramped now that they share it with the bulk of their careened ship.  Sailors bustle about in the darkness, rushing to complete their various chores, looking forward to finishing the night crowded around the communal bonfires for warmth.  Most of the ship’s officers stand with Mogens as they admire the long carcass slowly turning over a cooking fire.

Hot food.  Guiromélans realizes that tonight will be their first taste of hot food since he joined their crew.  The unending storms have made it too wet to maintain any fires in their sodden galley.  He and the crew have had to subsist on maggoty hardtack, cold gruel, and a slimy block of cheese that has become host to a most foul-tasting clutch of worms.  Whatever it is they are cooking smells most delicious.

The Quartermaster smiles as Guiromélans approaches.  “Any luck, uh?  Na?  Too bad!”  He slaps the rump of the cooking meat proudly, “We found this mirain ewe right away.  Caught the inigena, killed her, skinned her quick, uh?”

“Mogens,” Guiromélans says seriously, more than slightly distracted by the turning meal, “This place—”

“Na supplies yet, but we gots ourselves a meal fer tonight!”  He eyes the Raven.  “More than yä’ve done, uh?”

“We’ve done plenty.”  Guiromélans looks to Abandinus and Radla.  “Officers, this island is occupied by forces both supernatural and mundane.  Both probably more than we can handle.  Dark work is being done here, and I fear it is to be directed against us.”

“What’re yä talkin’ about?” barks Mogens.  Slowly, other members of the crew have begun to gather around them and the cooking fire.

Guiromélans looks hard at Radla.  “There are aurauchs here.”

The Navigator pales, “Oh, Kahedin preserve us!”

“Yäh?” Mogens grumbles, “What does that buachar mean?  Why didn’t yä kill one fer breakfast?”

“There will be blood soon enough, Quartermaster!” snaps Guiromélans.  “It means I believe we’ve landed on the häxa’s island.”

Mogens straightens, his mouth a tight line of fury.  In the livid light of the fire, the scars on his face take on a life of their own, crawling and writhing like snakes through his flesh.  “Och fi!” he curses.  “I knew it!”  He jabs an accusing finger at Guiromélans.  “This is yer fault!  Yä wanted tä land on this trougo island!  And we’re trapped here with a Cassibodua-kissed gwrach!”  By the time he finishes shouting, his voice cracks at a nearly hysterical pitch.

“As I recall,” Sail Master Bellatumarus interrupts quickly with cold finality, “Landin’ on this island was a group decision, voted on by the company.  Yä can’t blames the Captain fer that.”

“And we’re not settin’ sail any time soon, Quartermaster,” Master Carpenter Adalgis warns, “The careenin’s found lots of damage.  The Artaithto-Cing needs a lot of work.  It’d be suicidal tä leave now…”

Mogens spits into the fire.  “I don’t cares!” he shrieks.  “I’ll not stay on this trougo island another minute!  We eats.  We packs.  And we gets this drossy tub back intä the water!”

The sailors huddled against the fire murmur in agreement.  Wise or foolish, it seems they wish to leave as well.  No one loves this island.

Guiromélans’s eyes fall upon the turning carcass over the fire.  The fat beneath its flesh boils and pops, crusting and charring the skin.  Long, greasy drops fall upon the burning wood, hissing in the heat.

His eyes narrow.  Skin?  He though they’d captured an ewe.  The chest seems too broad.  And there’s something on the shoulder…

“Now, see here—” Guiromélans begins, not sure which troubles him more, the island, the carcass, or the behavior of his Quartermaster.

“Not a word, boduus!” Mogens warns.  “There ain’t none of yer votin’ here!”  He points desperately at Abandinus.  “Bo’s’n!  Get yä a search party and finds that cuall morwr!”

“What?” Guiromélans asks, suddenly very concerned.  “What mor— what sailor?  We’re missing a sailor?”

“Yäh,” Mogens laughs manically.  “One of the morwrs who walked the beach with me, uh?  Name of Cinio.  Took off on his own near as soon as we went intä the woods.  Cuall disappeared on us.  He’ll turn up.  Island ain’t that big.”

“I’m sure he will,” Guiromélans mutters, “It was after he disappeared that you killed this ewe?”

“Yäh!  Caught it right away!  Killed it.  Skinned it.  Brought it back tä camp.”

“There,” Guiromélans says uneasily.  “You said it again.”

“Said what again?” Mogens challenges.

“Skinned.”

“Yäh?  Sä what?”  The Brack draws his gully and digs it into the flesh of the rotating corpse, inviting the other men to draw closer and help themselves.  “Yä better be makin’ sense quickly, boduus, because the only thing keepin’ me on this island is dinner, and I’m very hungry!”

Shaking his head, Guiromélans shoves aside the crowd of sailors circling the carcass.  “Make sense?” he shouts, quickly circling the fire, “Very well, I will!”  Shoving and pushing—even threatening some with the point of his dagger—he drives the rest of the angry men away and turns back on Mogens.  “Dark powers are in the air on this island!” he shouts, pointing his dagger at Mogens, “Dark powers are ruling your eyes and your mind, and you all can’t even see what you’re doing!”

“What’re yä talkin’ about?” Sail Master Bellatumarus snarls.

Guiromélans stares at Mogens.  “Did you skin the ewe or did you shear it, Quartermaster?”

“We did what I said!” the scarred Brack bellows.  “We skinned it as sure as I’m standin’ here!”

Guiromélans points back at the smoking carcass.  Juice and blood run from the gaping wounds where the Bracks’ hungry gullies have already done their work.  “Then why is there skin on this?  What kind of ewe has skin beneath its skin?”

“Buachar!” Mogens shouts as he storms forward.  “There’s na skin on—”

“And how many ewes,” Guiromélans screams, driving his dagger deep into the body’s shoulder, “bear the mark of Aelle!”

The Bracks stand around in shock.  Dimmed but still visible, the swirling tattoos of Aelle can be seen on the cooked flesh.

“I think we found your missing sailor.”  Guiromélans stares into Mogens’s eyes and realizes that the Brack had no idea—no idea that he had killed and slaughtered one of his own men—no idea that he brought the body back and served it up for the others.  How could he not tell?  How could the others not notice?  The two nipples alone should have sufficed.  By God, the hands!

What kind of power does this häxa wield, that men cannot even trust their own senses?  How will they know when they are face-to-face with the enemy?  How will they tell friend from enemy, right from wrong?

Gagging men are all around him as those who had already tasted the meat now struggle to vomit it up.

Guiromélans delicately removes his dagger from the corpse and pushes his way through the crew, leaving them to deal with how to lay their comrade to rest.