Sorne charged him, took him in the belly and drove him into the bar. He heard the man’s spine crack. Stepping back, Sorne pulled the long knife from the raider’s belt and the sword from his sheath, then let him fall.
As he turned, he looked through the open tavern door and saw a small, single-sailed fishing boat anchored in the shallows.
The sound of smashing glass made him spin around to find the leader throttling Loris. She’d just broken a bottle over his head, but she was failing.
Sorne rushed the raider.
Thrusting Loris aside, the man drew his sword and swung at Sorne, who deflected the blade, catching it on his sword hilt, and stabbed him under the ribs with the knife.
The leader of the raiders fell to his knees, then pitched forward.
Loris lay on her back panting, amidst spilled alcohol and the toppled lantern. As Sorne went to her, she lifted a hand to protect herself.
He knelt. ‘Are you all right?’
She nodded.
‘I’m going, and I’m taking the children in the skiff.’
She didn’t argue.
He sprang to his feet and turned towards the dark cellar steps, where he saw the eldest two boys watching.
A scream reached them through the tavern’s open back door, followed by desperate shrieks. The other three sea-vermin had found the women and children.
‘Stay here. There’s more of them,’ Sorne told the boys. ‘I’ll be back.’
And he ran out the rear door. He hadn’t been outside the tavern, and he’d only ever seen the settlement at night. There was a jumble of buildings, but light only spilled from one open door and he ran towards it.
The single room was a shambles. Bedding lay strewn across the planks, and an old man lay in a puddle of blood, gasping. He pointed out the back door as someone shrieked again.
Sorne ran through the room to a back verandah. Here the earth fell away and he could see bushes silhouetted against the starry sky. Right below him the three raiders had the fourteen-year-old girl on her knees, by her hair.
One of them looked up, saw Sorne and went to warn his companions.
Sorne jumped the railing. Thumping into their backs feet first, he drove two of them to the ground. The third released the girl, who scrambled away as Sorne rolled to his knees.
The two he’d knocked to the ground were still down, but the third drew his blade and tried to run Sorne through before he could rise.
Sorne ducked lower and deflected the sword stroke. His blade snapped off not far from the hilt, but he was already driving the knife up into the man’s groin. His attacker screamed and crumpled.
Before Sorne could rise, he was tackled from behind. He fell forward and rolled out of the way as a sword buried itself in the dirt near his face. A man stood over him, pulled the sword free and went to strike again.
Sorne lifted his broken sword to deflect the blow.
A skinny arm snaked around the man’s head as the girl cut his throat. He toppled and she spat on him.
Sorne snatched the raider’s fallen sword and came to his feet. When he looked around, he saw Loris had come to the girl’s aid. The old woman clutched her stomach and collapsed as the third man pulled his sword free.
The attacker turned to confront Sorne, who moved into position, sword tip raised, knife arm behind him. The girl backed off.
They circled each other on the uneven slope. When the light from the open backdoor was in Sorne’s eyes, the man struck, swinging his sword in an arc that would have taken off Sorne’s head.
He dropped, stepped in and under, and gutted the man with the knife.
The man fell to one side, and Sorne leaned forward on one arm, gasping for breath.
After a moment, the dizziness passed and he lifted his head to see a dozen small faces watching him from underneath the verandah: the sea-vermin’s children.
The fourteen-year-old girl eyed Sorne. He struggled to his feet, feeling light-headed and shaky. The very pregnant woman came running through the shack, one hand under her belly, a meat cleaver in the other.
She looked at Sorne, then to the fourteen-year-old.
‘It’s all right,’ the girl said. She beckoned the children. ‘You can come out now.’
Sorne ran around the building and up the lane between the two shacks. Something moved in the shadows behind a water barrel.
Sorne reached in and hauled out a third old man, who whimpered and lifted his hands.
Letting him go, Sorne ran out onto the street to find the tavern well alight. Flames poured into the dark night. The roar of the fire drowned all other sounds.
Horror gripped him. He’d told the children to stay in the cellar.
Sorne ran towards the rear door, but flames beat him back. Desperate, he ran around the front of the tavern, took in the empty beach, the skiff at anchor and the overturned rowboat.
He made for the cellar doors. The heat was incredible, singeing his face, searing his throat with each breath.
He kicked the cellar doors, pulling burning timber apart to reach the children. Before he could get to them, the roof of the tavern fell in with a terrible crash. Flaming cinders swirled around him, landing on his shoulders. The tavern was nothing but a raging inferno.
Someone grabbed him, dragged him back and rolled him on the sand, beating at his head. He tried to fight them until he realised his hair was alight.
A bucket of water was dashed across his head and shoulders.
He gasped, tasting salt on his tongue.
The fourteen-year-old girl backed off with the empty bucket and the old man watched him, wiping his sooty hands on his stomach.
Sorne struggled to his knees in the sand and stared at the tavern. Only the shell remained. Most of the building had fallen into the cellar, where flames still burned fiercely, crackling and roaring. Smaller flames licked the remaining upright beams.
Tears streamed down his wet face.
He lifted his hands to wipe the tears away, only to discover his palms and fingers were blistered.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder.
He shrugged them off. Why had he left the children?
The hand persisted, tugging at his singed shirt.
He glanced at them.
Tiasely?
Seeing his stunned expression, she smiled and led him over to the rowboat. When she knocked on the boat’s belly, one side of the boat rose and the children crawled out. All of them.
Sorne fell to his knees, stunned with relief and joy as they swamped him.
A few moments later, he lifted his head to see the girl and the old man watching them. There was no sign of the pregnant woman and the other children.
Sorne stood. Finding he still had the knife tucked in his waistband, he drew it and backed off towards the skiff.
‘I’m going and I’m taking the children,’ Sorne told them. ‘Tiasely, get the little ones in the boat. Vivane, pull up the anchor.’
Behind him, he could hear splashing and soft voices as the bigger children waded out to the skiff with the little ones in their arms.
The old man said something to the girl. She ran back to one of the buildings.
Sorne didn’t wait to find out what she was up to. He waded through the shallows until he felt the boat at his back. He passed the knife over to Yosune and pulled himself into the vessel.
Twenty-two small faces looked up hopefully at him. From the size of the small cabin, he guessed it would have two bunks. There was only one sail. That would make it easier for him to manage.
The sound of splashing made him turn.
The girl reached the boat and thrust an armful of blankets and supplies at him. He accepted them automatically.
‘Wait,’ she told him. ‘You’ll need more. Do you have fresh water?’
‘I don’t know.’ He beckoned the nearest boy. ‘Put this in the cabin. Check what food and water is aboard.’
When he turned around, the girl had gone again, but the old man had come down to stand on the hard sand revealed by the retreating tide. If Sorne wasn’t careful, the skiff would be stranded here.
He grabbed the oar and went to the prow, pushing off the sand to free the boat’s nose. The old man grabbed the rope to prevent it drifting out further. In all, the girl made four trips, supplying them with water, blankets and food.
As she handed over the final bundle, she told him, ‘This is one of the last habitable western islands. You’ll need to be careful picking your way through the channels back to the coast.’
‘We’re not going back. We’re going to Ivernia,’ Sorne said, then cursed his too-ready tongue.
‘Then sail south-west and you’ll hit the northern island. If you want the south island, make your way down the coast. Less time in the open sea.’
He thanked her. ‘What will you tell the Maygharian?’
‘The raiders came. They took you all and burned the tavern.’
He nodded and waved goodbye.
Then he unfurled the sail, but there was no breeze and dawn was still a little time off. He let the ebbing tide draw them out of the bay into the channel, where the current took them and, by the time the sun rose, bringing with it a light wind, they were already out of sight of the island.
As long as he kept the rising sun behind him and the wind proved fair, they would be all right. It was just a matter of holding to their course.
He hoped.
At least he didn’t have to worry about sea-vermin any more.
In this craft, he would be mistaken for one of their own.
Chapter Thirty-Three
R
ONNYN KICKED, REMEMBERING
to keep his toes curled back so that the ball of his foot struck the padded target. He enjoyed martial training. It felt good to push his body, feeling it grow stronger every day. Even his bad arm was improving, although it would never be perfect.
‘Come on, you can kick harder than that,’ Toryx teased.
Ronnyn ignored him. He wasn’t sure why Reoden’s hand-of-force had put the trouble-maker with him and Sardeon. If she hoped Toryx would get over his dislike of them, it wasn’t working.
Adjusting his stance, Ronnyn wiped sweat from his top lip and kicked again.
‘Good,’ Cerafeoni said as she came up behind him. ‘You and Sardeon are quick learners. When you’ve mastered the basics, I’ll teach you the first pattern. They’re all based on the goal of disarming an armed opponent. When King Charald the Peacemaker forbade us carrying any blade larger than our hunting knives, he didn’t realise what he’d unleashed. And we’ve had three hundred years to perfect the techniques.’ She grinned, mischief clear in her one good eye. ‘And one day I’ll show you how much damage a long-knife can do.’
With a nod of approval, she indicated that it was Sardeon’s turn.
Ronnyn watched his choice-brother concentrate, trying to impress Cerafeoni. Sardeon tried so hard, he tensed up too much and made a poor job of it.
‘Keep trying,’ she said as she moved on.
Sardeon would be furious with himself. To give his new choice-brother privacy, Ronnyn turned to watch the older empowered lads, admiring their flexibility and skill.
Glancing back, Ronnyn was just in time to see Toryx move the target as Sardeon struck. Then the older lad stepped through, knocking Sardeon off his feet before he could recover his balance.
‘Hey!’ Ronnyn protested.
Sardeon sprang to his feet, fast as a cat. Despite being a head shorter and slender, he confronted Toryx. Ronnyn tensed. This was going to end badly; maybe not today, but one day soon. Toryx had almost three years’ training in gift-working and martial techniques.
Toryx smirked. ‘Try me, pretty boy.’
Cheeks red with fury, Sardeon trembled with anger.
Toryx smiled and took a step forward, eager for confrontation. ‘Come on. Give me a reason to lay a hand on you!’
‘Leave them alone,’ Vittor warned.
Toryx turned.
The injured lad from the gift-wright’s sisterhood pushed away from the rail where he had been leaning. With his arm stitched and strapped to his chest, he could do little to back up his threat. Even so, Vittor’s eyes glittered with gift immanence. Ronnyn’s heart raced.
Toryx backed down, slipping away.
Ronnyn watched him go. ‘Why does he hate us? Why goad Sardeon?’
‘To establish his dominance over him.’
‘Toryx has been training since he was thirteen. Now he’s almost sixteen. He should be teaching us, not trying to belittle us.’
Vittor rolled his eyes. ‘I know you’re sharing our cabin because we’ve run out of room, but why are you practising martial training with us?’
‘Cerafeoni said we were the same size so we’d make good training partners.’ Ronnyn felt defensive. ‘She says we’re doing well.’
‘You’re going to have to do better than that. Lads who are prettier than most girls have a hard time in the brotherhood.’
‘I’m not pretty,’ Ronnyn objected.
‘No, but there’s something appealing about you. It’ll have the sisters requesting you for trysts.’ He gestured. ‘As for you, Sardeon, your face is going to get you in trouble. You’ll need backup.’
At that moment, Cerafeoni ended the training session.
Vittor gestured to her. ‘Ask your hand-of-force. It’s her job to prepare you for the brotherhood.’ And he strode off.
Ronnyn watched Vittor go, thinking there were so many things he didn’t understand. ‘You’ll be sent to your father’s brotherhood and I’ll be sent to mine, Sar. Let’s make a pact. If we both become all-fathers, we’ll form an alliance.’
No answer.
‘Sar?’
His choice-brother had walked off.
Had he said something to offend him?
‘Ronnyn?’ Their choice-mother had been watching from the foredeck. She beckoned him.
By the time he’d climbed up there, the scryer and Sarodyti were with her. Scryer Lysitzi barely glanced at Ronnyn, her expression dismissive. Or perhaps it was just the way the scar turned down the corner of her mouth.
‘So, Ronnyn,’ Reoden turned to him after the old scryer and Sarodyti left. ‘How are you and Sardeon settling into the empowered lads’ cabin?’
‘They’re not so bad. I like Vittor,’ Ronnyn said, then dared to ask, ‘Why didn’t you heal the scryer’s scar?’