Except for those interrogations, Rap was completely ignored, and so was Gathmor. The sailor was recovering his physical strength, but his mind seemed to have snapped under the strain of captivity, or else from the loss of his ship and family. Dulleyed and morose, he spent hours curled up, ignoring everything, not even replying to questions. The prisoners were given food and water, but only if they begged for them on their knees. Gathmor either could not or would not do such a thing, so Rap had to beg for two, begging being better than hunger and thirst. If he hoped to live beyond the next landfall, he must hope to escape, and for escape he would need his strength—so he told himself as he groveled, but the sustenance he gained thereby seemed strangely tasteless.
The wind faltered, recovered, veered southerly, then westerly, yet it never failed enough for Kalkor to order rowing; it never again became a full gale. And on the third afternoon, at about the fiftieth repetition of Jalon’s battle song, the lookout spied land.
Like Andor’s and unlike Rap’s, Kalkor’s word of power seemed to bring him luck. His ship was bearing down on an unknown lee shore in a spanking wind, but his course brought him within sight of exactly what he wanted, an isolated village.
The land was green, hilly and wooded, if not as lush as Faerie or Kith. Within the stretches of forest, too, lay many stretches of open grassland and even barren rock, which Rap found puzzling. By and large, though, the country seemed fertile—why was it not more populated?
And when Blood Wave was close enough for sharp eyes and farsight to make out details, there was a river mouth coming up ahead, and a cluster of small cottages. None of the buildings could possibly be a barracks, and if there were boats, they must be small. So this was no Imperial outpost with a naval squadron or a garrison, and those were all that raiders need fear.
The jotnar took out their axes for more sharpening, and demanded the most spirited songs the minstrel knew; they began talking themselves up into bloodlust. Rap found the process horrible and in some perverse way fascinating. The pirates never paused to consider that a tiny fraction of the wealth their vessel carried would buy them all the food and shelter they could usethe idea of a peaceful visit never entered their minds. They bragged of how they would kill and kill, rape and rape. They challenged each other to fiendish contests in atrocity. Before long they were so aroused that they could hardly contain themselves. Their eyes rolled in their heads, and some were drooling like imbeciles. Many stripped naked as if even their usual scanty clothing might somehow restrain their actions. And yet this was the crew that had lined up in solid silent discipline along the beach at Durthing—small wonder that the raiders of Nordland were the terror of Pandemia.
Suddenly the minstrel was ordered to cease, although he had been barely audible over the manic babble anyway. Kalkor was up on the half deck beside the helmsman, roaring orders through a trumpet. Men leaped to their benches and the oars were run out. Rap and Gathmor, who had been huddling in the bow, making themselves inconspicuous amid the madness, were ordered aft. Amidships they passed Jalon as he staggered forward, ashen pale under his sunburn, sucking swollen, bleeding fingers.
The sail was furled in the bunt; the coxswain began piping a stroke.
Now Rap received the job offer he had been expecting all along. Kalkor stepped to the edge of the tiny half deck and stared down at him with contempt gleaming in too-blue eyes. “Well, faun? I was told you were pilot on that floating brothel your friend ran?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Then let us see how you manage a longship. Up here with you. And if you prove yourself useful, I may decide to postpone the flogging for a while. Some of it, anyway.”
Seeing no viable alternative, Rap clambered up the little ladder to join the thane and his helmsman on the poop.
“And you—whatever your name is—” Kalkor said to the scowling Gathmor. “Cast an eye at that shore and tell me where we are.”
Gathmor was pale and sullen, not the man Rap had known. No jotunn should have taken such a tone, especially him, but he turned obediently to study the landscape and then looked back up at Kalkor.
“I have never seen its like. It is not Kith, nor any part of Sysannaso I have ever visited.”
“And not Pithmot, I think,” Kalkor said, with a smirk. “So we know where we are, don’t we?”
Dragon Reach? It had to be Dragon Reach! A strange warm thrill tingled Rap’s skin as he realized the implications of Dragon Reach.
“Vurjuk!” shouted Kalkor.
The gangling young raider was sitting on the nearest bench, wearing nothing but a conical steel helmet and a self-conscious expression. He was unpaired and thus had not put out an oar. He sprang up. “Aye, sir?”
“Get a weapon and keep an eye on this jotunn woman. If he causes any trouble, kill him.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” Vurjuk said in an enthusiastic squeak. He stooped to find his battle—ax under the bench. A sword or dagger would have been more appropriate at such close quarters, Rap thought, but the youth hefted the huge ax in one hand and stepped closer to Gathmor. He was a head taller and dangerous in the extreme, yet Gathmor did not even deign to look at him.
Rap, meanwhile, had been studying the approach, both with farsight and with eyes that were gradually recovering from Darad’s brutality. Farsight worked better—the sun was close to the horizon, the light tricky.
Either way, the problem was obvious. Hastened along by the rush of the tide, Blood Wave was skirting a long spit of rock and sand, keeping step with the breaking swell that raked it in white plumes of spray. Beyond that sinister barrier beckoned a clear lagoon and a friendly yellow beach, and back of them were trees and a hamlet at the base of steep cliffs—a safe haven, with fresh water and shelter, plus unhindered opportunity to enjoy the bloody sports of raiders.
Up ahead, the narrow hook ended, plunging below the shining water in a frothy confusion of rocks. And beyond them was open channel through which surged the fearsome tide. But the rocks were what sent Rap’s heart racing. Deceptive to the eye . . . Deep below the smoothly coiling surface, he saw the frenzied streaming of the kelp. He checked Blood Wave’s draft, and it was less than Stormdancer’s. But it was enough. Now he must see what he was really made of.
He was new to the ship, so Kalkor would be wary of him, but another chance might not come again for months, and he might never find a better natural trap. Under the low sun that tidal rip was barely visible at all to mundane vision. If he could position Blood Wave crosswise in that, then she would whip around and oars would never control her. For several minutes she would be completely at the mercy of the current, and some of those rocky teeth were shallow enough.
Other words of power brought good fortune; perhaps his was going to come through with some at last.
Peep! said the coxswain’s pipe. “Steady as she goes, sir.” Peep!
“The gap’s clear?” Kalkor demanded suspiciously.
“Aye, sir. Plenty.” And that was true, except that the longship would never reach the opening Rap was looking at. Would that partial lie deceive the jotunn? Rap’s heart was racing as it never had. He kept his face turned to the sea. Peep!
Please, Gods! Please let me rid the world of this monster! Rap would die, too, of course. If the waves did not smash him on the rocks, then he would swim ashore and the other survivors would catch him there. But surely this so-perfect ambush had been provided by the Gods themselves?
God of Sailors, God of Mercy, God of Justice . . . As I seek to aid the Good and shun the Evil, grant me this day courage. Peep! Peep! Oars creaked against thole pins, heaving Blood Wave closer and closer to that sinister, inconspicuous ripple. Peep!
Twenty strokes should do it. Swiftly, swiftly to destruction. Eighteen.
Sixteen.
“You’re sure of this, are you, Master Rap?” Kalkor murmured.
“Aye, sir. Quite sure. Steady as she goes, helmsman.” Fourteen.
Twelve.
Then Kalkor raised his trumpet and roared orders—helm hard over, port watch backwater. Blood Wave seemed to stand on her stern as she came about, her bow swinging seaward, away from the waiting race.
The thane’s rugged hand grabbed Rap by the throat, thrusting him back against the gunwale, bending him over it until his feet left the deck, flailing helplessly, and he was sure he was about to crack. Through a choking black mist he saw blue eyes blaze above him in a killer rage. “Sink my ship, would you, faun scum?”