Return of the Crimson Guard

Jemain lowered his head once more. ‘We've entered the Cut, you know! A Westerly has taken us. Corlo says we may meet the demons who live in these waters!’

No response, just slow anguished rocking.

Shaking his head, Jemain set the cup down between the man's bare feet. He retreated to the companionway, went to talk to Corlo. He found him smoking a pipe in a hammock. ‘Still won't answer.’

Corlo took the pipe from his mouth. ‘No. He won't.’

‘You're a mage — why don't you do something? Ease his madness?’

A snort. ‘Not without his permission.’

‘So we can do nothing for him?’

‘We might pray for the Riders to come. That would bring him out of it.’

Jemain couldn't tell if the man was serious or not. ‘No, thank you.’ He stared upwards for a time at the timbers overhead, listened to the storm batter the Ardent. ‘I don't understand. What happened?’

‘We're too late. Missed what we'd come all this way for. All we'd endured…’ He frowned, studied his white clay pipe. ‘We lost a lot of friends. He thinks he should've been there to help. Blames himself.’

‘And you?’

A shrug from Corlo. ‘It's different for me. I'm not Avowed. The connection's not so strong.’

‘I thought you were — Avowed.’

‘No. Next best thing, though. I'm First Investiture. First round of recruiting after the Vow.’

Oh, I see.’ Or thought he did — he wasn't sure, though he suspected that recruitment probably happened far longer ago than this man's seeming forty or so years would imply.

Another of Bars’ party, Garren, thumped down the companion-way, shouted, ‘Ship sighted!’

It was a vessel of a cut and design Jemain had never seen before — which wasn't surprising, given that he'd never sailed these seas before. But he was surprised at the ease with which it rode the high, steep waves here in the Sea of Storms — the Cut, Corlo called it. Long and low, hull tarred black. Square-sailed, single-masted, bearing a brutal ram below the waterline that breasted each wave, sloughing water and foam, as the vessel pitched. And, incredibly, the galley boasted four ranks of oarsmen. Surely it would've keeled over in such a sea.

‘Who are they?’ he shouted to Corlo.

The mage's face was grim. ‘Looks like a ship out of Mare. We have to run.’

Jemain almost laughed, but wouldn't show the despair that vessel struck in his heart. No chance of outrunning that. He yelled: ‘Hard larboard! Put the stern to them, Watt!’

‘Aye, sir.’

‘Man the deck! Ready crossbows!’

The crew lurched from side to side, stowing equipment, distributing what few weapons they possessed. Jemain made his way to the stern; Corlo followed. There, he watched through the waves where the vessel appeared in glimpses between the grey waters and the equally grey overcast sky. It was swinging around them, nimble as a gull, while the Ardent, a single-banked slave galley, so battered by its long ocean crossing, wallowed like a log.

It was going to ram.

‘Brace yourselves!’ To Watt: ‘Ready to swing to port.’

The old tillerman clamped his toothless gums together, his lips wrinkling. ‘We'll give it a go, sir.’

Corlo tapped his shoulder, gestured to the bow. Bars was now standing, his hands clamped on the gunwale, gaze fixed upon the closing vessel. ‘Pity the Marese, maybe, hey?’ he said.

Pity us first. Jemain, a lifelong seaman, could only stare in awful appreciation of the skill and seamanship as the vessel bore down upon them, cresting the last wave just in time to lurch downward, adding the impetus of its weight to the thrust of the blunt bronze-sheathed ram cutting the water and throwing a curled wake higher than the vessel itself.

Beautiful. ‘Port!’ Watt threw the arm sideways; the Ardent only began to respond before the ship was upon them. Too slow — no chance. No chance at all.

The blow drove the Ardent sideways. It snatched Jemain from where he stood to throw him against the gunwale and over. The frigid water stung as if it were boiling. It stole what little breath he possessed. Vision and sensations came in glimpses as his head broached the surface. The Ardent wallowing, side caved in. Men tumbling overboard. Bars at the canted bow, fists raised in rage. Then frothed grey water as he spun in the waves. Frigid, life-sapping water numbing his arms, face and legs. And he sinking, weakening in the all-embracing cold. The numbness spreading to take his vision and thoughts.

He awoke coughing and spluttering on hard decking. Limp. Limbs useless. Other crewmen from the Ardent lay about like gaffed fish. Mare crewmen in dark leather armour were gathered around one particular netted man, truncheons rising and falling, beating and beating. Seeing him awake, one crewman came over, wiped his brow, panting. ‘You are of Genabaris, yes?’ he asked in a strange mangling of the South Confederacy dialect.

Jemain nodded mutely.