“—simply because I can!”
Where the flails overlapped a previous blow, the pain was unbearable. Blow after relentless blow landed, sheets of white agony, cold and burning at the same time. His skin seemed to melt under the onslaught, so that each cut went deeper and deeper. Something hot and wet trickled down his sides. His back turned into a single pulsating mantle of fire.
He tried to crawl away, wriggling this way and that to protect his back from the worst, but he could get no traction on the wooden deck. Someone kicked his head. His vision whirled with the impact and the sickening, distant sound of laughter.
Then his throat opened and he screamed.
Z
EVARON drifted in and out of nightmares, of half-waking dreams of fire racing across his back, of the world dissolving beneath him as legend said would happen at the end of time, of voices weaving in and out in the distance, often in languages he could not understand. Of something cavernous opening up beneath him and a low deep thrumming, a sound below sound.
Gradually, the periods of consciousness lengthened. He became aware that he was lying on his belly on a rough wood surface, jammed between boxes or crates, he couldn’t tell. From time to time, a someone knelt beside him, sponged his back and face, and spoke to him.
Zevaron wanted Tsorreh more than ever. But she was gone, sent off to Gelon and slavery or death. All because he had failed her. Whatever happened to her was his fault, his misjudgment, his weakness. The pain in his back and the pain in his heart ran together and wet his face, a storm of tears.
“There now, boy,” came the man’s voice, rasping and curiously familiar. “Wilt live. Wilt mend. Though it might have been a blessing otherwise.”
Wilt live?
Was he not dead already?
Uneasy sleep swallowed him up again.
He woke to the sound of a man’s voice speaking Gelone, a voice he ought to know. Instinct kept him motionless, pretending sleep.
“So the cub has survived, after all. Who would have thought he had it in him? Perhaps there’s more to this one than meets the eye. All right, I’ll allow him a share of rations. Put him on the oars as soon as he’s able. He’ll work his way, all right. When we reach Verenzza, we’ll see what else he’s good for. Too bad about the scars. He’s pretty enough to be a rich man’s ducky.”
Footsteps, this time leather over wood, receded into the constant rushing sound. Zevaron slitted his eyes open to glimpse a man in Gelonian clothing, wearing a bandolier of braided leather and a sword in its belted scabbard. He watched the man clamber up a ladder and disappear into a wash of brilliance. The world shifted rhythmically. Salt tang and the smell of fish hung heavy in the air.
“’M’on a boat?” Zevaron’s throat ached as he formed the broken words.
“Ship, not boat. Drink this.” A man, stout, with thinning white hair, helped Zevaron to sit up while carefully avoiding touching his back. “We’re three days out of Gatacinne. That’s three days closer to Gelon.”
Zevaron took the dented metal cup in both hands. The movement was awkward because his wrists were encased in iron manacles, joined by links of chain. Thirst swept through him, and he gulped down the tepid brew. It was some kind of ale, bitter and well-watered. His throat felt as if he’d swallowed sand or screamed himself voiceless, but he had no memory of it. There was food as well, dry flatbread, salt-cured meat, and boiled millet. Zevaron ate it all, even though his stomach rebelled at the smell. The old sailor brought rags and a thick, stinking ointment for Zevaron’s wounds. They were on the
Wave Dancer
, headed for Gelon with a load of slaves and booty, mostly from the governor’s palace and the Gatacinne treasury.
“That Haran, he meant to make an example of you, d’you see?” the old sailor told Zevaron. “He’d be just as
happy if you died. Then he could feed your body to the fishes. You belong to the Ar-King now that we’re at sea, so he dare not. But he’ll make you wish he had.”
“Why—why are you helping me?”
Am I to be your ducky?
In the half-light, Zevaron caught the glint of the old man’s eyes. He saw a secret recognition, an affirmation that
the enemy of my enemy is my friend.
A chance to defy Gelon, to wrest one small victory from their hands.
With food in his belly, Zevaron felt strong enough to move about, as the old sailor urged. The cuts on his face were shallow and had already scabbed over. The hold was cramped and dank, and the constant rhythmic movement left him nauseous and disoriented, but he persisted as if his life depended on it.
Although every movement sent fresh spasms of pain through his back, Zevaron gritted his teeth and clambered onto the rowing deck. Here he joined the rows of oarsmen, one above and offset from the other. The
Wave Dancer
had previously been crewed by free men, so there were no bolts on the floor to attach the leg shackles. Instead, the Gelon knotted a loop around one ankle of each prisoner and anchored the ends to the bench brackets.
The old sailor left to attend to his own work. “Do your best, lad, keep your nose out of trouble, and the others will look after you.”
When the ship moved easily under sail, the oarsmen rested. After a short time, however, the wind fell off, and Zevaron took his place with the others on the bench, who were mostly Isarran, newly made slaves. Some had sea experience.
Zevaron grasped the oar as he was shown and did his best. After a short time, the barely healed cuts on his back broke open and began bleeding. He felt wrung out, exhausted. He kept going, telling himself that the only way he was going to get strong enough was to push himself.
He was shaking all over when a halt was called. His hands were scoured and blistered, and the salt from his
sweat set his back on fire. They rested, drank a measure of water, and returned to work. He wanted nothing more than to crawl back to the belly of the ship. He sat, staring at the oar and wondering where he was going to find the strength to pick it up.
Haran, the whip-bearing Gelon in charge, spotted him. Glaring, the Gelon made his way on the planking between the banks of rowers. Terror overcame exhaustion as Zevaron hastily grabbed his oar. He thought of that whip laid over his torn, oozing back. He ducked his head, throwing his weight into the next stroke. Out of the corner of his vision, he saw the Gelon come closer, the gleam in the man’s eyes. The whip uncoiled.
Slash!
Zevaron flinched at the sound. His muscles tightened reflexively. His throat clenched, and bile rose to his mouth. No lash of fire bit into his flesh this time. He hauled on the oar, his heart pounding. The whip snapped again and a voice cried out, but not his. The Gelon cursed aloud in his own language, something about
lazy scum.
Shivering in the close, hot air, Zevaron rowed.
Stroke…stroke…
He tried to settle into the rhythm, but the oars required coordination and the skill was slow in coming. As minutes built one on the other, his muscles ached and the palms of his hands burned and swelled. Each torment added to the next, until he felt he could bear no more, do no more. Then he would catch a glimpse of Haran and his whip, the gleam of those eyes, remember the sound of the lash laying open his skin, and he would row. And row.
As the eastern sky grew dark, the wind came up again. The oarsmen rested. Zevaron slumped over, hands hanging limp between his knees. As soon as he stopped rowing, the agony of salt on his open wounds sprang up again, assailing his back and his torn palms. The man with the water bucket came around, but Zevaron did not have the strength even to reach for the cup. The man who rowed in front of him held it to Zevaron’s mouth and coaxed him to drink. No one
protested the delay, although the other rowers must have been thirsty, too.
The water had been dosed with wine and something else, some restorative herb. It brought a small measure of renewed strength. Zevaron felt the ship gliding under him, and looked up with the others as someone on the top deck called out the approach of land.
The old Isarran sailor brought a pot of ointment and rags, and set about tending to the abraded hands of the new rowers. As he worked, he told them what was happening. They had made land, one of the islands in a chain called the Sea King’s Necklace, where they would pass the night at anchor, rather than risk straying from their course. It was along the route to Verenzza, and the
Wave Dancer
had stopped here many times before. The island provided a sheltered cove, as well as inland springs and wild goats.
A shimmering twilight hung in the western sky as the ship dropped anchor. Zevaron heard the change in the waves and the shrill cries of the sea birds. Haran had taken ashore a party of seamen, the old Isarran among them, to hunt and to refill water casks.
The Gelon on watch untied the slaves, several at a time, so that they might move about and relieve themselves over the side of the ship. Zevaron could not imagine any of them having the strength to rebel. He certainly didn’t. He patiently waited his turn for the ration of water and boiled grain that was his evening meal. When he started shivering, one of the sailors gave him an old shirt, stiff with sea salt.
Full dark had fallen by the time Zevaron was allowed to move about. He had been dozing fitfully in his place when the rower behind him touched his shoulder gently. Lantern in hand, a Gelon stood guard while another untied the ankle loop. The muscles of Zevaron’s arms and back were so stiff, it hurt to breathe, but he forced himself to follow the others to the main deck.
“Something’s going on,” someone said. “There—on shore.”
Zevaron was too tired to care.
Still, it was good to be on deck. The night was unusually clear, and the moon, barely past full, was so bright it cast faint shadows. Sounds carried above the gentle plash of the waves: shouting, the rustling noise of bodies moving through brush, then a scream. Zevaron saw the darker shadow of a small boat heading toward them.
“Ambush!” Haran’s voice sliced through the night. “Pirates! Flee! Flee!”
“Sir? What about the others?” one of the Gelon onboard asked, glancing wild-eyed toward the shore. “Shouldn’t we—”
“Never mind them!” The slave-master hauled himself up the knotted rope and onto the deck. He was alone. “All men to the oars! Row! Row for your lives!”
The other slaves began shuffling down, but Zevaron lingered. His knees threatened to give way beneath him, yet something came boiling up in him. His one friend on this ship, the old sailor, was still on the island. He could not endure being tied up once again, serving the man who had beaten him almost to death, abandoning yet another person who needed him. What he would do when the Gelon noticed his defiance, he could not imagine. He glanced at the railing, wondering if he could scramble over it, his hands still fettered, and somehow make it to shore.
The next moment, the pirates hurled themselves over the railing and onto the deck. Their approach had been silent, no more than the sound of the waves, but when they burst over the sides of the ship, they let out a unified, bloodcurdling scream.
Haran and the handful of Gelon readied their swords and rushed to engage them. A heartbeat later, the deck swarmed with struggling bodies. The air rang with clashing steel.
Zevaron scuttled out of the way as men slashed and charged at one another. The other slaves had disappeared below, but he remained on deck, heedless of the risk. He knew nothing of these pirates, whether they might be his
enemies as well, or
the friend who is the enemy of my enemy.
The battle was quick and bloody. Within moments, all but one of the Gelon had jumped overboard or were lying inert on the deck. Only Haran remained. He’d lost his sword, but he struck out with his whip, again and again, keeping his opponents at a distance. The pirates backed off, as one of their number, a short lean man, his features unreadable in the uncertain light, stepped forward to engage Haran. The pirate had no sword, only a long knife, and as he and the Gelon circled each other, Zevaron noticed the slight drag of an injured leg.
Haran must have seen it, too, for he moved in, striking hard to close the gap between them. He kicked at the pirate’s good leg. The pirate fell, rolling. Before he could scramble back up, Haran lunged for him. The sound of the lash cracked the air, followed by the sickening slap of knotted leather across flesh.
Zevaron’s throat filled with bile. His muscles locked for an awful instant. Then his vision went preternaturally sharp. The moonlit deck, shadowed by railings, tackle, and beams, seemed as clear as a street in full day. The Gelon’s back was to him, so that he looked full upon the face of the fallen pirate. He saw each one of the parallel cuts across cheek and brow, the eyes shock-wide, the angle of Haran’s arm as he brought the whip around for another stroke.
Suddenly Zevaron could move. He took a deep step forward, pivoted slightly, and brought the edge of his heel down on the back of the Gelon’s knee. The Gelon folded, twisted away. The blow aimed at the pirate went wild, but one of the flails of the lash caught Zevaron’s upraised hand, cutting open a strip of skin.
Zevaron hardly felt the cut. With that same clarity of vision, he watched Haran surge to his feet.
“You!” Haran snarled, “I’ll get you—”
Again the whip came up, flails spread wide as they began their terrible arc. They hissed, as if they were alive and hungering. Zevaron saw the familiar gleam in the Gelon’s eyes,
the shape of his breastplate like that of the soldiers who had cut down his father and then his brother, who had rampaged through the streets of Gatacinne.
No!
howled through his mind, along the marrow of his bones.
No more!
Faster than thought, Zevaron darted forward. He matched his movement to the arc of the blow. Although he was still too far to reach the stock of the whip, the heavy braided leather at the base smacked against his manacled hands. This time, the flails did not bite. They slid into his grasp. His fingers closed around them. Still moving along his own circular path, he stepped back and, using his momentum, yanked hard.