Suzanne whispered in the Captain’s ear, loud enough for those nearby to hear. “I think she may have earned a promotion, sir.”
“I concur,” said Brian. “I’ve never heard of a Spakka bothering to learn another language, even as a long term prisoner. Nobody else can talk to them.”
“Yes,” said the Captain, ruminatively. “I think we shall make her a Midshipman, rather than a Boatswain’s Mate.” He grinned evilly at Brian. “Then you can have the welcome task of teaching her navigation.”
Pat came down from the galley, his fingers treated but he had refused a bandage. He made his way to the group of soldiers settling down to clean their kit. Most of them had been in the galley with him, the soldiers having a wound or three though none serious. Little was the exception, he was happily telling the others how slow and clumsy they were as he oiled his armour with the instinctive care of a veteran. He looked up at the boy approaching.
“Good shooting, laddie. You want to get some mail, though, as they are going to stick you soon, the way you stand out in the open. We’ve got spare. You stick with us, laddie, you’re a soldier, not a sailor.”
The tallest soldier stood up and stepped forwards, taking Pat’s hand and looking at it. Pat tried to pull it back and started to flame up again, but relaxed at his silence. The soldier examined the wounds closely, sniffed at the treatment and frowned.
“What is it?”
Pat shrugged. “Some plant from the Port that I don’t know.”
“When you wash it off tomorrow, if it hasn’t a good start to healing, bring to me. I have woundwort.”
“Thanks,” stammered Pat. “That’s kind.”
“May I see your arrows?” He took a shaft form Pat. “Elven,” he said, and looked at the shaft, especially the seven full inches of hardened steel making up the bodkin tip. “How much carbon?”
“One and a half. Got to keep sulphur out.”
“Sure.” He smelt the wood.
Pat spoke in a strange, lilting language. “
You have a look and feel of the people. I cherish the chance to see you shoot.
”
The tall man looked at him solemnly and replied in the same language. “
My father. How do you speak the language of the North?
”
Pat grinned. “
Fighting and trading! One of my tutors was an elf, a farstrider
.”
“If you two bloody elves have quite finished,” Sergeant Russell glared at them, “we only speak languages everyone can speak in this army!”
“Yeah” said Little, “but it’s only Husky who can’t speak Elvish and he’s thick as pigshit.”
“Enough,” said the sergeant wearily before Husk could respond. “OK lads, so get the tension off the bows and oil them up. This salt air will kill them as quick as a wink. Inspection in half an hour.”
There were the usual groans from the soldiers, but they set to straight away, taking great care of the weapons. Pat sat down beside the tall man and started cleaning his bow and putting the string away, while they murmured together in Elvish.
Lieutenant Mactravis climbed wearily up to the poop. He saluted the Captain who regarded him bleakly.
“Are you injured, Lieutenant?”
“Just a bang on the head, Sir. Helmet did its job.”
“And your men?”
“Scratches, mostly, one broken bone, but all will heal. It’s not an easy thing, climbing into a shield wall.”
“Crazy,” murmured Brian. “I can’t understand the Spakka. They never had a chance.”
“Oh, I’m not sure,” said the Captain. “I think that was a well worked plan that had a very good chance. If they had caught us of guard, they would swarm over us and we’d have been disabled. They still had a chance till they found the shield wall, and if Pat and the ballista hadn’t reduced the numbers, they could have come round the sides.”
“Not sure what you did, sir,” said Mactravis, “but I think that if the ship has slowed much after the impact, we would have had another load to contend with. That would have been warm work.”
“Indeed, there are still a few longships astern of us looking for wreckage. Now, Lieutenant, tell us about these Spakka Sara has landed us with.”
“I don’t really know, sir. Spakka I have fought have always died, never surrendered. There are stories of how to get them to surrender, and Sara must know them.” The Lieutenant eyed the Captain and Brian thoughtfully. “More than any mercenary would. She took command of my men without even thinking about it. Not many outsiders have heard us sing and fight.”
“Yes,” said the Captain slowly. “I wondered about that. She seems very young for a mercenary leader of such ability.”
“Well, you’ll need to promote her now, sir. All of a sudden your little topsails girl has thirty odd big hairy savages who will obey her and only her.”
“Really?”
“You saw her welcome ceremony, sir. They put her feet on their heads. Drank her blood. But she has told them to do what I say, which apparently they have accepted for training purposes.”
“Will they sail?”
“”If she tells them to, I guess they will. They are all happily learning Harrhein this evening as she decreed it to be the most important thing. I never heard of a Spakka learning another language.”
“Hmmmph. Well, I agree with you on the promotion anyway. She’s now a Midshipman.”
Sailing
W
ith the Spakka galleys falling behind over the horizon, the Queen Rose maintained a steady south east course. She listed right over to one side as all the Bosun moved the ballast and cargo to starboard to keep the damaged side planks out of the water.
The carpenter managed a quick rough repair, stuffing the holes with canvas for the night, and the next day went over the side in a sling along with his assistants and experienced seamen. The Bosun oversaw from the deck, with the new recruits kept well away and out of mischief. Sara objected vociferously to her promotion but couldn’t find a suitable argument. Once Brian pointed out that it was out of character for a mercenary to refuse more money, she submitted with bad grace, but insisted on remaining a topsailsman until the Spakka spoke enough Harrhein to incorporate them into the crew. She would need extra time as a Midshipman to learn her future duties.
While overseeing the repairs, the Bosun conducted interviews with the released slaves. There weren’t many of them, for it seemed the Spakka preferred to row themselves for fitness. Slaves were not a permanent position - it was the bottom rung of society from which you could rise and become Spakka yourself. There were half a dozen Harrhein slaves, and she spoke to them first. They were a little reticent, one admitting to have been a slave for three years, the only one thankful for his release.
The Bosun came up to the poop to report to the Captain, with Taufik in tow. “Captain, I think we’ve picked up a right rum lot here,” she reported without preamble. “I reckon most of them were pirates and wouldn’t trust them an inch. Almost worth turning back to port to dump them.”
Captain Larroche stroked his beard and prepared to speak when Taufik interrupted. “Captain, you must kill some of them.”
Brian stopped his navigation lesson, he, Suzanne and Sara turning to listen with interest, as did Walters and Perryn, busy working on the report of the allegiance ceremony.
“Humph. I don’t tend to execute many men, Master Taufik.” Captain Larroche regarded him with a quizzical eye, hand still resting on his beard.
“Sir, they are Havant,” said Taufik with the air of someone who has explained everything in full.
“Ah,” said Captain Larroche, “I believe I have heard of Havant. Bishop, isn’t it a country to the east of Spak?”
“Indeed, sir,” replied Bishop Walters in his best tutor’s voice. “It is supposed to be quite a large country and a veritable maritime power. They are always fighting with the Spakka, though, so we have little knowledge or trade with them. Most of our knowledge comes from Taufik here.”
“So, Master Taufik, they are Havant and that is a reason to kill them? Why?”
“Sir, the Havant control all the Western trade with Hind. They are very jealous of it, and they are a very warlike people. We are expressly forbidden to trade to the West, and indeed it was only due to a storm we came this way. If the Havant find out we are trading in Hind, they will send warships to track us down and sink us.”
“Do they have ships as big as this?” Captain Larroche asked, a shade contemptuously.
“Yes sir, many of them. This design is a carrack, and they also have caravels which they claim they invented. Caravels are smaller but faster. If they know about us, they will blockade the sea lanes. You must kill them. You cannot take the risk of them escaping. When we get to Hind, they will just steal a boat and slip ashore, then make their way home.”
Silence spread across the poop deck. The sound of hammering rose from the side where the carpenter worked on the holes, and Little could be heard swearing in the distance. Hens cackled and a cockerel crowed
Captain Larroche looked at his officers, including Taylor, the third mate who materialised in time to hear. “Thoughts?”
Nobody said a word, though the Bosun began to look decidedly grim.
“Right, everyone,” said the Captain, “imagine you are King of Havant and you are the sole trader established with all of Hind. Another country appears, one you don’t trade with. Do you seek to encourage their trade, or repress it? If you repress it, how would you do so?”
Captain Larroche saw with interest the hard, determined expressions appearing first on the girls faces, as Sara and Suzanne came to the same decision as the Bosun. Bishop Walters joined them, while the other men still looked disturbed.
“Perhaps with some discussion and negotiation,” began Brian and trailed off as he looked around and saw a lack of support.
“Who’s going to kill them?” Taylor asked, a tough squat man. Married, and he saw no reason to put his wife in extra danger. “I can see the necessity, but I ain’t doing it.”
“And when?” The Bosun put in, her face troubled. “I don’t want my crew upset by this. Needs to be done fast before they make friends. Not that they will. Take out the pirates too.”
The silence deepened. Sara shook herself, and thought about responsibility. ‘
I’m growing up too fast,’
she thought miserably, ‘
this was supposed to be a fun trip. Go on girl, sort it out. They won’t, and we must do this for the country. I must do it fast or they will find a reason not to do it.’
She stepped forward and cringed inside as she saw the faces brighten, a look of relief appearing fleetingly on the Captain’s face.
“It’s my fault they are here,” she said clearly and confidently, no trace of her anguish. “I will sort it directly. Sir, you will explain why to the crew afterwards.”
Captain Larroche nodded, “I can do that, but what will you do?”
“I will have the Spakka slaughter them. They will do what I say, and I will tell them it is a test. They must also slay any Spakka once of Havant.” The iron grip she held on her emotions to stop the revulsion made her words come out hard and cold, which matched her face.
The Captain sighed. A way out, so tempting. Sternly he gripped the rail. “No. That is not the way. It would upset the crew who would never trust the Spakka. We need a trial before we hang them. I know, I know!” He put up his hand to stop Sara’s angry protest. “This is a ship, not the army, we don’t do decrees here. Every member of the crew is entitled to understand what is happening.”
The Captain moved over to Sara, put his hand on her shoulder and murmured, “It is a good thought, but this is better for the ship.” He stepped back and continued a little louder so others could hear. “If you could use your Spakka to arrest the slaves, we”ll try them straight away. I want them all held individually. You will do the translating at the trial.”
The congregated crew grumbled and shuffled, not happy. Life as a galley slave amounted to the depths of hell, and they wanted to celebrate the rescue. Why put them on trial?
The first ex-slave brought forward came from Harrhein. Captain Larroche explained the tribunal consisted of an investigation to find out how he came to become a slave, and was rewarded with a long involved tale of a fishing boat being shipwrecked and his being rescued by Spakka who enslaved him. The crew listened appreciatively and hummed at his bravery. Sara translated his story to the Spakka, without him hearing.
The ex-slave finished his impressive tale and smiled at the crew. A large Spakka warrior grunted and muttered to Sara. “Captain, I have further evidence.” The Captain nodded.
“This is Boersma. He remembers his capture.” She indicated the warrior, who grinned theatrically at the crew through a large scar down his cheek, exposing several missing teeth. The crew frowned, not a popular witness. “He was a sailor on a pirate ship they caught. Along with four others over there. It was the Gull.”
The crew gave a sharp intake of breath, the mood changing in an instant. The Gull had been a particularly bloody pirate ship. But Boersma wasn’t finished.
“He says this one had no honour,” Sara translated, stone faced. “He didn’t fight to the death, begged for his life.” Boersma took a step forward and spat in the direction of the ex-slave, who went white and sank to his knees. Other Spakka warriors pulled forward the other four men, and the five of them shrank before the glare of the crew.