The Awakening (29 page)

Could he draw them away from the camp and elude them somehow? He crouched behind a bush, pondering.

Hungry! We are hungry.

The thought, as powerful as it was unexpected, shot through Shanek, almost making him cry out loud. In the deepening gloom Shanek smiled. It was just like the arox; he could hear the Skrinnies!

Spread out, find the beast.

Shanek listened to the thoughts in his head, able to track where every Skrinnie was. He needed to take them down the slope, away from the camp. Their voices, somehow different, somehow all the same, spoke in his head. He could understand their clicking, sense where they were.

There! It is there! It runs! Come, nestlings, we feed on beast tonight.

All the nestlings followed, their powerful legs carrying them over bushes, past rocks in pursuit of the beast that enslaved so many.

Gone! It hides. There; you, there; you, look there; you, go to that bush; you, go to that shadow. All have places to look. We will find it.

No; it is not here; nor here; nor here. It eludes. Sound! There!

Freeze it! The beast eludes. It flees.

But it flees down.

Yes, down, beast. Go down to the flatland. Go down to where the nesters wait.

Noise! There! Hunt!

A bolas! It hunts us! There!

The nestlings ran as one to the sound of the bolas, the ancient enemy of their kind. Long
have the beasts fought us with their feeble weapons. Their pointed steel that scrapes our shells, their sharp flying sticks that rattle off us, we scorn them. But a bolas! It tangles, it breaks, it brings us down!

Hunt the beast!

Where is it? It eludes! Hunt!

Shanek dodged the Skrinnies as they pursued him. He waited to hear where they went, then went the other way. He hid where they were not looking, he ran as they searched. In the exhilaration of the chase, he did not have time to ponder what he was learning, but he knew he would remember it all.

By the time he reached the flatland, the Skrinnie knot was looking for him a hundred paces to his right. He almost laughed out loud as he listened to their increasingly angry clicking.

No wonder you lost,
he thought.

With a final look back to check that none of the knot was searching his way, he jogged to the west. He had travelled so far west on the slope that it would be easier to go around the hill and back to the river than to go back up and over.

It would have worked, but he got careless. He heard a warning in his head, but thinking it was still the Skrinnies he ignored it.

The arrow took him high in the chest, punching through just under his collarbone. The impact spun him around, throwing him to the ground.

Twelve horses were coming towards him.

Where’d they come from?
he thought as he faded into unconsciousness.

‘What do we have here, then? A pretty boy?’

Shanek coughed and spluttered as water was thrown onto his face. His shoulder ached, but the arrow was gone. His eyes were covered and his hands were tied behind his back.

‘A pretty boy? Way out here in the Fastness?’ the voice went on. Shanek recognised the accent as Ettan, but not that of a city dweller.
Probably a Tribesman
, he reasoned.

‘Just kill him, Ejaj,’ another voice called. ‘The knot will be back soon.’

Shanek was lying on the ground. Rather than focusing on listening to the loud chatter all around him, he concentrated on listening to his mind.

Twelve men. No, four were women. A bound figure lying on the ground with a bloodied shoulder. Conversation. Fear, worried looks around. The horses are restive, snorting and tossing their heads. Skrin Tia’k are close. One woman draws a sword. The big man, apparently in charge, nods. No words pass between the two of them. She swings at the bound figure.

Shanek rolled aside as the sword drove into the ground. He heard the woman hiss in annoyance. She drew back and took another swing. Shanek watched her with his mind, leaving his dodge until the last possible moment. The sword thrummed in protest as it slammed once more into the dirt.

The chatter around him died.

‘What the…?’ started the big leader. He was cut off by Shanek’s well-timed and powerful kick that smashed unerringly into his groin. He went down clutching himself, groaning in pain.

Shanek scrambled to his feet. Still blindfolded he spun around to face the armed woman.

‘Want to try again?’ he snarled.

Her eyes widened and she thrust at him. It was a clumsy thrust that he easily avoided by turning aside. As she stumbled past him, he tripped her. She fell heavily. While she was down and the rest were watching dumbfounded, he knelt beside her and, with his uninjured left hand, snatched her dagger from its sheath and cut his bonds.

He toyed with the idea of removing his blindfold, but rejected it. Behind him a man reacted faster than his fellows and drew his sword. Shanek swivelled, dropped to one knee and hurled the dagger. The man gurgled and went down when the hilt thudded into his forehead. Still kneeling, Shanek placed both his hands on the ground in front of him and threw his feet out backwards, catching the woman behind him as she clambered to her feet. She grunted and went down again, her sword falling out of her hand.

Shanek picked up the sword and whipped it around to rest on the throat of the leader who was slowly regaining his breath.

‘I don’t like your attitude,’ Shanek hissed. ‘Call off your rabble or I gut you like the pig you are.’

The man was pale with pain and shock. His eyes still watered but he was able to stare at Shanek.

‘Who are you?’ he whispered.

‘Shanek.’

‘Shanek,’ the leader started, starting to rise.

‘I never said you could stand up,’ Shanek said, exerting a little more pressure on the man’s throat. He sank back to the ground.

‘Had we known you were blind we would never have shot you,’ the leader went on.

Shanek tore off his blindfold. ‘Who said I was blind?’

‘But to fight as you do, blindfolded…’

Shanek smiled coldly. ‘You are not the best fighters I have faced. I could take you left-handed and blindfolded.’

‘You are not even left-handed?’

‘No. But you shot me.’

‘Burn it!’ cursed the leader. ‘Shanek, would you like to join us?’

Shanek pondered the offer. With Leone dying, most of his Fyrd gone and the mission, such as it was, in tatters, he had no reason to stay here. And yet there was his father’s message; if there was treachery in Ajyne, what chance did he have if he went home? Even so, he could not simply desert the soldiers he’d left behind.

‘What do you offer me if I do?’ he asked finally.

‘Freedom. The sky for a roof, the earth for a bed, all the Skrinnies you can kill, all the wealth you can carry.’

‘I have something to do, otherwise your offer is interesting.’

Ejaj regarded Shanek carefully. ‘This something you have to do, does it involve the knot we saw earlier?’

Shanek nodded.

‘They went over the hill a while ago, after they’d given up on you.’

‘How long was I out?’

‘Hour, maybe two.’

‘Where am I?’

‘Not far from where you fell.’

‘I have to go,’ Shanek said. He turned and looked around. The hill was not far away, but it would be quicker to head directly to the river and follow it back to the camp. With a muttered, ‘Purity go with you,’ he started to jog away.

They parted and allowed him to leave, but before he had gone a hundred paces, he heard hoofbeats behind him.

‘Hey,’ called Ejaj.

Shanek turned his head.

‘You’d be quicker on a horse.’

By the time they arrived at the campsite, he knew it was too late. The Skrin Tia’k knot had managed to overwhelm the entire Fyrd. There were bodies strewn about, all bearing the heavy slash marks characteristic of wild Skrinnies.

‘Burn it!’ cried Shanek. He leaped off his horse and ran to where Leone had been. There was a lot of blood and a woman’s body so badly hacked it was completely unidentifiable. A wave of tangled emotions swept through him. He fell to his knees and stared up at the sky.
So much death. And such a waste!
A cry of anger, mingled with a sense of loss, tore from his throat. It echoed back from the hills around, a faint, mocking sound. ‘Where are you, you monsters?’ he screamed, surging to his feet. ‘All the Skrinnies I can kill, you said,’ he yelled at Ejaj. ‘There aren’t enough out there for me!’

The Commander stared in disbelief at the sight that greeted him. In all his years at sea, he had never seen anything like it. Around him the crew assembled, all equally fascinated although he was already hearing the expected mutterings. Despite their deeply pragmatic lifestyle, most Raiders carried with them the superstitions common amongst seamen and this was enough to make even the most hardened man shudder.

It was a woman. She was lying unconscious on a large piece of bleached driftwood, her long white hair trailing in the water. Her dress was tattered and her skin burned by the sun. Clearly she was either dead or near death.

But whilst finding a woman drifting in the sea was strange enough, having her escorted by a force of blaewhals was utterly alien. The blaewhal was carnivorous and wild, known for randomly attacking ships and taking unwary men from small boats. Even as they watched, the lead blaewhal nudged the wood towards the ship. An eerie silence fell over the crew as every eye watched the floating
wood sliding across the water. It made an audible
thud
as it bumped against the hull.

No one stirred. The wood bumped again as the ship rolled in the gentle swell.

Suddenly the lead blaewhal surged forward, raising its ugly head, uttering its unmistakeable warbling cry as it thrashed at the water. It seemed to be about to attack the
Misty Seal
, but it stopped short, subsiding a mere couple of strokes from the hull, sliding under the surface. Three others followed the leader, and the
Misty Seal
shuddered as they bumped and scraped their way under the hull.

This was clearly a signal, as the rest of the force closed in around the ship, nudging and bumping until it heaved and surged under the assault. The silence that had seized the crew ended as men started to mutter, their eyes becoming wild.

‘Bring her onboard,’ murmured Officer Manno. He had quietly made his way to stand beside the Commander. His words were pitched so that none but the Commander could hear him.

The Commander nodded. ‘Bring her onboard,’ he ordered, raising his voice.

Grateful to have some direction, several crewmen moved to obey him. ‘And bring the driftwood, too,’ he added as an afterthought.

He watched as his crew prepared to bring the woman aboard. First a number of men clambered over the side with ropes. These they tied to the driftwood. Then a sling was lowered and arranged under the woman. This last was done very carefully by two men who slowly slid into the water, keeping
a nervous eye on the blaewhals. They, it seemed, were also content to watch.

Once the ropes and sling were all in place, the woman and her makeshift raft were hauled onboard. As she was being lifted out of the water, she stirred and her eyes flickered open.

‘At least she’s alive,’ muttered Officer Manno.

‘Hmmm,’ agreed the Commander. ‘But who is she?’

‘And what is she doing out here?’ continued Officer Manno. ‘And why is she being protected by the most voracious hunters in the sea?’

‘I was trying not to think about that,’ answered the Commander. ‘Doctor,’ he called as he turned away. ‘Call me when she’s awake. I want to talk to this hwenfayre.’

It was nearly dark before the ship’s doctor sent word to the Commander that the strange woman from the sea was awake and alert enough to talk. She lay in the
Misty Seal
’s makeshift medical room, her eyes open and staring. When the Commander came in, his large frame filling the doorway, she started, then subsided as he approached her.

Unsure of what to say, he stood awkwardly beside her bed, looking at her. She was young, maybe nineteen summers, with long white hair and strange violet eyes that shone and dimmed in a heartbeat. Her skin, although sun-reddened, would be fair. Clad now in the rough canvas and leather of a Southern Raider, she seemed frail and small, but as he regarded her he became aware of a strength in her, more so when he realised she was returning his gaze. For the first time in more years than he could
remember, he actually felt embarrassed by her frank stare.

‘Do I know you?’ she asked suddenly.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Oh,’ she replied. ‘From the way you were staring at me, I was sure you knew me.’

Her accent was unlike any he had heard. It was a mixture of islander, seafarer and mainlander. He was intrigued. He sat on a small stool beside her bed. ‘Tell me about yourself, hwenfayre.’

Her eyes widened in shock and she sat up abruptly. ‘What did you call me?’ she asked.

‘Hwenfayre,’ he said. ‘It is an old islander word, meaning “child of the sea”. I thought it was an appropriate name. Why do you ask?’

She lay back down again, her shock diminishing. ‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘I have heard the word before, that’s all.’

‘You’re an islander, then?’

Hwenfayre shook her head. ‘Mainland,’ she said. ‘I think,’ she added.

‘You think?’

‘Often.’

The Commander laughed. ‘No, that’s not what I meant,’ he started.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘What I meant was that I am not sure any more where I am from.’

‘That would explain your chosen method of transport then,’ the Commander said.

Hwenfayre frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

He explained how they had found her. From her look of disbelief, it was clear that she was unaware of it, and was as mystified as he was.

‘So, where am I?’ she asked.

‘You are on the vessel
Misty Seal
, under my command.’

‘And who are you?’

‘I am called the Commander.’

‘No name?’

He shook his head. ‘Not any more,’ he replied. ‘I command the people commonly called the Southern Raiders, and—ah, I see you have heard of us,’ he said, smiling tightly at her immediate response.

Instead of answering, Hwenfayre tried to push herself away from the big man sitting by her bedside. Finding her back to the wall, she started to force herself up, getting as far away from the Commander as possible.

Hwenfayre could not speak; all she could see was images of smashed and broken ships and men, broken by the might of a storm that she had called down on them. But even as she watched the scene replaying in her mind, she could not escape the thought that came suddenly crashing in on her.

I tried to kill Wyn!

No matter that she did not even know whether he was alive or dead. No matter that at the time she’d believed he had left her. The fact remained that she had deliberately summoned a storm and sent it after him.
How could I have done that? What kind of person am I?

Misunderstanding, the Commander tried to placate her. ‘There’s no need to be afraid,’ he said. ‘As a hwenfayre, one who has been lost at sea, you have nothing to fear from us. We are your brothers on the water.’

‘I’m not afraid of you,’ she said.

‘Good,’ he said, relaxing again. He frowned. ‘What are you afraid of?’ he asked. She shook her head. ‘You’re not afraid, or you’re not telling me?’

Again she shook her head.

‘Perhaps you can remember your name?’

Sensing the irony, Hwenfayre shook her head once more. ‘What was that word, the one you called me?’

‘Hwenfayre?’

She nodded. ‘I like that word. Call me that.’

‘A strange name for a mysterious woman. Very well, Hwenfayre it is.’ He stood to leave. ‘When you are feeling stronger come up on deck and talk with me. I have missed female company and I think you could have some interesting things to tell me.’

‘I doubt that.’

The Commander smiled, a strange, wan sort of smile. ‘Let me be the judge of that. At least you will distract me.’ He turned and walked from the room, his wooden leg pounding heavily on the deck.

Hwenfayre slept uneasily in the narrow cot. All night her mind was tortured with images of destruction and murder, of betrayal and lies, and of Wyn. How could she have so quickly forgotten him? How could she have been so easily swayed by the deceits of Morag? The more she tossed and turned, the more convinced she became the liar had been Morag, not Wyn. The murder of Hylin, the ignorance of the Novices, the duplicity of Declan all told her who to trust. But beyond everything was the simple fact that she did indeed have the power to summon a storm. She had done it twice that she could remember: once to kill hundreds of Southern Raiders, and once to kill Wyn.

At times her mind turned to the period she had spent alone in the Sea after Declan had tossed her into the storm. At first she had felt terror, then a strange resignation to her death. As the waves crashed over her and the
Kelpie
sailed unheedingly away, she gave herself up to the cold and the violent water. She was driven deep below the surface into the darkness, where the water seemed calm. It seemed that she stayed alive much longer than she should have been able to, but a warmth suffused her and she felt herself rising to the surface. As she rose, she thought she was just floating, but as the light returned she chanced a look down to see a dark shape beneath her, lifting her.

When her head broke the surface of the water, she felt a thrill of naked fear, what Wyn had called a grue, as she realised she had not simply floated up, but had been lifted up by a blaewhal. The huge predator had positioned itself beneath her dangling feet and swum up to where she was able to breathe again, and when she found a piece of driftwood, it dived into the waiting dark of deep water. Scarcely able to think in her fear, she scrambled up onto the driftwood and lay shivering with far more than just the chill of the water.

And yet…No. She dismissed the thought as quickly as it had come to her. But she could not escape the thought that, while she lay on the calming Sea, she could sense the presence of the big fish, and others like it, swimming beneath her.

Now, as she lay safe and warm in a bed, she remembered seeing more blaewhals as she drifted and wondered whether she did, in truth, simply drift.
If she were the Danan, could she not call the beasts of the deep to her aid? And if she could, what manner of being did that make her?

By the time the dawn touched the tops of the waves, she had left her bed, tormented by her own guilt, self-loathing and doubts. No wonder Morag wanted to kill her! She was indeed dangerous, and perhaps, for all Morag’s lies, the High Priestess was right.