wits he was born with, he’d
have guessed that Darad might enlist some jotnar of his own. So Rap had brought
down the full horrors of a Nordland thane on the settlement, and for that evil
he deserved. more punishment than even the Gods could decree.
Whining
was not going to help, and telling his word would mean instant drowning. He
wasn’t ready for that yet, not quite. So he gave Darad a very obscene
instruction he had learned from Gathmor. The resulting punches knocked him out
for a while, and that was an improvement.
Piety
nor wit:
The
moving Finger writes;
and,
having writ, Moves on;
nor
all your Piety nor Wit
Shall
lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor
all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
Fitzgerald,
Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
THREE
Where are you
roaming?
1
“Nod
if you’re awake,” said a whisper in his ear.
Only
pain was convincing Rap that he was even alive, but he nodded slightly.
“Can
you get free?” Gathmor really didn’t need to whisper when the storm
still howled in the rigging and every rope and spar and strake on Blood Wave
was screaming in the torment of the monstrous waves. In any case, the raiders
had apparently forgotten their captives altogether.
Rap
shook his head. Seawater blew in his face. “How long’ve we been
here?”
“About
two days, by the stubble on your chin.”
Gathmor
was deathly pale, his hair matted with old blood. The crazy look in his eye
might have worried Rap had there been anything left in the world that could
worry Rap.
“Did
they fight?”
Rap
nodded. He’d heard snippets of the bragging; he’d seen the
bloodstained axes being cleaned and resharpened. He’d even recognized
some items among the pitiful handfuls of loot that had been thrown aboard and
now lay scattered around in the bilge: brooches and trinkets.
Gathmor
let out a long sigh and closed his eyes. He’d doted on his three sons,
and he’d shown his wife as much affection in public as a jotunn ever did.
His beloved Stormdancer would be a heap of ashes on the beach by now.
“I
think they’re leaving us here to die,” Rap croaked. The sailor
shook his head. “Just softening us up. “
Rap
fell silent, frightened he might start to sob. He was so weak! Courage or
stubbornness were easier to fake when a man had his strength, but days and
nights in bonds, thirst, hunger, cold, pain-he could feel them sapping his
will. A man had far more trouble being strong in spirit when his body had been
so badly damaged. And uncertainty helped, too. Call that fear.
Farsight
made the ordeal worse. Every roll to port and his ribs were ground against a
lumpy sack-but those lumps were stoneware flagons of wine. He could even read
the labels. Rolls to starboard brought a heavy keg thumping against his kneeand
he knew it contained salt beef. Most of the baggage on Blood Wave was loot:
gold and jewels and finery, stuffed in bags and jammed into odd corners, much
of it broken or ruined already; but within his reach, were he not bound, there
was food and drink aplenty.
He
could also watch every mouthful as the raiders feasted and drank. They ate
well. Even at the height of the storm, when he expected Blood Wave to founder
at any minute, the mariners went calmly about their business and pleasure. To
display fear or even reasonable doubts would be unjotunnish and probably a
capital offense on this ship.
If
softening him up was what Kalkor intended, then Rap thought he would make a
very fine feather mattress already.
Dark
and cold . . . Splash after splash after splash of salt water ... Rain,
sometimes, which helped.
Being
rolled to and fro on a rock pile until half his bones felt raw.
Thirst,
monstrous torments of thirst. A boot in the ribs if he called out.
You
volunteered for this voyage, Pea-brain! Did you expect the luxury cabin?
Hunger.
Cold. Thirst. Fouling his own clothes. Thirst. Cold. Cramps like hot coals.
Gathmor,
whispering: “Why’d you interfere? If you knew it was
have guessed that Darad might enlist some jotnar of his own. So Rap had brought
down the full horrors of a Nordland thane on the settlement, and for that evil
he deserved. more punishment than even the Gods could decree.
Whining
was not going to help, and telling his word would mean instant drowning. He
wasn’t ready for that yet, not quite. So he gave Darad a very obscene
instruction he had learned from Gathmor. The resulting punches knocked him out
for a while, and that was an improvement.
Piety
nor wit:
The
moving Finger writes;
and,
having writ, Moves on;
nor
all your Piety nor Wit
Shall
lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor
all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
Fitzgerald,
Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
THREE
Where are you
roaming?
1
“Nod
if you’re awake,” said a whisper in his ear.
Only
pain was convincing Rap that he was even alive, but he nodded slightly.
“Can
you get free?” Gathmor really didn’t need to whisper when the storm
still howled in the rigging and every rope and spar and strake on Blood Wave
was screaming in the torment of the monstrous waves. In any case, the raiders
had apparently forgotten their captives altogether.
Rap
shook his head. Seawater blew in his face. “How long’ve we been
here?”
“About
two days, by the stubble on your chin.”
Gathmor
was deathly pale, his hair matted with old blood. The crazy look in his eye
might have worried Rap had there been anything left in the world that could
worry Rap.
“Did
they fight?”
Rap
nodded. He’d heard snippets of the bragging; he’d seen the
bloodstained axes being cleaned and resharpened. He’d even recognized
some items among the pitiful handfuls of loot that had been thrown aboard and
now lay scattered around in the bilge: brooches and trinkets.
Gathmor
let out a long sigh and closed his eyes. He’d doted on his three sons,
and he’d shown his wife as much affection in public as a jotunn ever did.
His beloved Stormdancer would be a heap of ashes on the beach by now.
“I
think they’re leaving us here to die,” Rap croaked. The sailor
shook his head. “Just softening us up. “
Rap
fell silent, frightened he might start to sob. He was so weak! Courage or
stubbornness were easier to fake when a man had his strength, but days and
nights in bonds, thirst, hunger, cold, pain-he could feel them sapping his
will. A man had far more trouble being strong in spirit when his body had been
so badly damaged. And uncertainty helped, too. Call that fear.
Farsight
made the ordeal worse. Every roll to port and his ribs were ground against a
lumpy sack-but those lumps were stoneware flagons of wine. He could even read
the labels. Rolls to starboard brought a heavy keg thumping against his kneeand
he knew it contained salt beef. Most of the baggage on Blood Wave was loot:
gold and jewels and finery, stuffed in bags and jammed into odd corners, much
of it broken or ruined already; but within his reach, were he not bound, there
was food and drink aplenty.
He
could also watch every mouthful as the raiders feasted and drank. They ate
well. Even at the height of the storm, when he expected Blood Wave to founder
at any minute, the mariners went calmly about their business and pleasure. To
display fear or even reasonable doubts would be unjotunnish and probably a
capital offense on this ship.
If
softening him up was what Kalkor intended, then Rap thought he would make a
very fine feather mattress already.
Dark
and cold . . . Splash after splash after splash of salt water ... Rain,
sometimes, which helped.
Being
rolled to and fro on a rock pile until half his bones felt raw.
Thirst,
monstrous torments of thirst. A boot in the ribs if he called out.
You
volunteered for this voyage, Pea-brain! Did you expect the luxury cabin?
Hunger.
Cold. Thirst. Fouling his own clothes. Thirst. Cold. Cramps like hot coals.
Gathmor,
whispering: “Why’d you interfere? If you knew it was
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