Hawkwood's voyage

TEN

Outside, the tramp of cadenced feet and the bark of orders were filling up the afternoon. Little zephyrs of dust swirled in the doorway to curl up on the floor. A lizard clung motionless to the whitewashed wall.

Lord Murad of Galiapeno sipped wine, his eyes running down the muster lists. Unlike many nobles of the old breed, he could read and write perfectly and did not consider it beneath him. The older generation had cooks to feed them, grooms to care for their horses and scribes to read or write their books and letters. Murad, like King Abeleyn, had never thought that a prudent state of affairs. He liked to decipher evidence with his own wits without having to rely on a commoner. And there were some things which he liked to reserve for his eyes alone.

Fifty-two men, including two sergeants and two ensigns. They were the best in the Abrusio garrison, and Murad had commanded the bulk of them himself for more than two years. No cavalry, alas. The only horses they were taking were breeding stock. There were arquebuses for every man, though not all of them were yet trained in their use; and Hawkwood’s crews-they were familiar with firearms. Many of them were no better than pirates.

Murad dipped his quill in the inkwell and did some calculations. Then he leaned back, gnawing the end of the goose-feather with his teeth. Two hundred and sixty-two souls all told, in two ships. Of that total perhaps a hundred and twenty were able to bear arms, plus an unknown quantity of these God-cursed sorcerers. They might well be more useful than field guns if their powers were as great as rumour made them, but it was best not to expect too much. They would know nothing of discipline, and would have to be herded like the cattle they were.

His eye fell on another list, and he examined it carefully. Of the passengers on the ships, some sixty were women. That was good. His men would need recreation, to say nothing of himself. He would look them over ere they sailed and pick out a couple of the comeliest for his servants.

Murad put down his pen and stretched, the new leather of his doublet creaking. There was a shadow in the doorway, backlit by the glaring sunlight.

“Come.”

Ensign Valdan di Souza entered, ducking his head a little. He snapped to attention before his superior officer, his armour clinking. He seemed half broiled, his face a mask of dust save where the sweat had cut long runnels down it. There was sweat dripping off his nose also, Murad noted with distaste. The man smelled like a Calmaric bathing room.

“Well, Valdan?”

“My men have drawn all weapons and equipment, sir, and I have quartered them apart from the others as you ordered. Sergeant Mensurado is inspecting them now, prior to your own inspection.”

“Good.” Mensurado was the best sergeant in the city, a filthy beast of a man and an inveterate whoremonger, but a born soldier.

“Sit down, Valdan. Loosen your harness for the sake of the Saint. Have some wine.”

Valdan sat gratefully and plucked at his armour straps. He was a big, lanky youth with straw-yellow hair, unusual in Hebrion. His father was a prosperous merchant who had paid for his son to be adopted by one of the lesser noble houses, the Souzas. That was the way noble blood was watered down these days. Nobles without money sold their names to commoners with it. A century previously it would have been much different, but times were changing.

Still, di Souza was a good officer and the men liked him-perhaps, Murad thought wryly, because he was on their level. He was one of the two junior officers who would be accompanying him on the voyage. The other was Ensign Hernan Sequero, a member of the noblest family in the kingdom save for the Royal line of the Hibrusios. He might even be a closer relation to the King than Murad himself. But however blue his blood, he was late.

Sequero eventually arrived as Ensign di Souza was gulping down his second glass of the chilled wine. Murad looked him up and down coolly as he stood at attention. He smelled of Perigrainian perfume. His forehead shone with the heat, yet he somehow contrived to appear completely at ease despite his heavy half-armour.

“Sit.” Sequero did so, flashing a glance of contempt at the gasping di Souza.

“The horses, Hernan. Have you seen to them?” Murad drawled.

“Yes, sir. They are to be loaded on to the ships the day before we sail. Two stallions and six mares.”

“That’s two more than this fellow Hawkwood bargained for, but no doubt he will find room for them somewhere. We need the wider range of brood mares for a healthy line.”

“Indeed, sir,” Sequero said. Horsebreeding was a passion of his. He had selected the stock himself from his father’s studs.

“What about their feed?”

“Being loaded tomorrow: hay and best barley grain. I hope, sir, that there will be good pasture at our landfall. The horses will need fresh grass to get back into condition.”

“There will be,” Murad said confidently, although he did not know for sure himself.

There was a silence. They could hear cicadas singing in the trees that bordered the parched parade ground. Here, on the eastern side of Abrusio hill, the landward breeze was blocked and the country was as dry as a desert. Still, it was moving into autumn and rain could not be far away.

Where will autumn find us? Murad thought momentarily. Somewhere on the face of an unexplored ocean, or maybe a league below it.

He stood up and began pacing back and forth in the small room. It was stone-floored and thick-walled to keep out the worst of the heat. There was a bunk in one corner, a tall wall cupboard and a table covered in papers with his rapier lying across it. The two ensigns sat uncomfortably by the small desk. The window had been shuttered, and the place was dim save where the afternoon light flooded in through the open door. Murad’s quarters were monk-like in their austerity, but he made up for it when he had time to spend in the city. His conquests were almost as legendary as the duels they engendered.

“You know, gentlemen,” he said, continuing to pace, “that we are to undertake a voyage in a few days’ time. That we are taking the best of the garrison and enough stock to breed us a new line of warhorses. Thus far, that is all you have known.”

The two ensigns leaned forward in their chairs. Murad’s black eyes swept over them both balefully.

“What I am about to tell you will not leave this room, not until the day and very hour we sail. You will not repeat it to the sergeants, to the men, to your sweethearts or your families. Is that understood?”

The two younger men nodded readily.

“Very good. The fact is, gentlemen, that we are taking ship with a Gabrian sea captain and a crew of black-faced easterners, so I want you to watch the men once we are aboard. Any fighting when we are at sea will not be tolerated. No man of any piety likes having veritable Sea-Merduks as travelling companions, but we make do the best we can with what God sees fit to give us. On that note, you had best be aware that we are not the only passengers on these ships. Some one hundred and forty other folk will be sailing with us, as. . colonists. These people are, to put it bluntly, sorcerers who are fleeing the purges in Abrusio. Our king has seen fit to allow them to take ship for a place of sanctuary, and they will be the citizens of the state we intend to found in the west.”

Hernan Sequero’s face had darkened at the mention of sorcerers, but now it took on a narrow-eyed intensity at Murad’s last word.

“West, sir? Where in the west?”

“On the as yet undiscovered Western Continent, Hernan.”

“Is there such a place?” di Souza asked, shocked out of his respectful silence.

“Yes, Valdan, there is. I have proof of it, and I am to be the viceroy of a new Hebrian province we will establish there.”

Murad could see that his officers’ minds were working furiously, and he had to smile. They were the only other Hebrians of any rank who would be on the voyage; they were busy calculating what that meant in terms of personal position and prestige.

“As viceroy,” Sequero said at last. “You are not expected to command troops, but to be the administrative head of the province. Is that not true, sir?”

Trust Sequero to work it out first.

“Yes, Hernan.”

“Then someone will have to be appointed overall commander of the military part of the expedition once it reaches this Western Continent.”

“Eventually, yes.”

Di Souza and Sequero were looking at one another sidelong and Murad had to make an effort not to laugh. He had planned it well. Now they would be striving like titans to gain his favour in the hopes of promotion. And there would be no conspiring behind his back, either. They would trust each other too little for that.

“But that is in the future,” he said smoothly. “For the moment, I want you both to begin drawing up guard rosters and training routines with the assistance of your sergeants. I want the men well drilled while we are at sea, and they must be proficient with arquebuses by the time we make landfall. That includes the officers.”

He saw Sequero wrinkle up his nose at the thought. Nobles disliked firearms, considering them the weapons of commoners. Swords and lances were the only arms a man of any quality should have to know how to use. Murad had had to overcome that prejudice himself. Di Souza, who was closer to his troops, already knew how to use an arquebus and how to read and write, whereas Sequero, though quicker witted, was of the old school. He was illiterate and fought with sword alone. It would be interesting to see how they both developed in the voyage west. Murad was pleased with his choice of subordinates. They complemented each other.

“Sir,” Sequero asked, “do you expect any kind of resistance in the west? Is the continent inhabited?”

“I am not entirely sure,” Murad said. “But it is always best to be prepared. I am positive, though, that we will meet nothing which can overcome a demi-tercio of Hebrian soldiers.”

“These sorcerers we are sailing with,” di Souza said. “Are they convicts being deported, sir, or are they passengers embarking of their own free will? The Prelate of Abrusio-”

“Let me worry about the Prelate of Abrusio,” Murad snapped. “It is true that we could choose better stuff to form the seed of a new province, but I do as the King wills. And besides, their abilities could prove useful.”

“I take it, then, that we will not be embarking a priest, sir?” Sequero asked.

Murad glared blackly at him. Sequero sometimes liked to walk a narrower line than most.

“Probably not, Hernan.”

“But sir-” di Souza began to protest.

“Enough. As I said, we are all subject to the will of higher authorities. There is no cleric in our complement, nor to be honest would I expect one to take ship with such fellow travellers. The new province will have to do without spiritual guidance until the first ships make the return voyage.”

Di Souza was obviously troubled and Murad cursed himself. He had forgotten how God-damned pious some of the lower classes could be. They needed religion like the nobility needed wine.

“The men will not be happy, sir,” di Souza said, almost sullenly. “You know how they like to have a priest on hand ere they go into battle.”

“The men will follow orders, as they always do. It is too late now to do any differently. We sail, gentlemen, in eight days. You may inform your sergeants of the timing two days before departure-no sooner. Are there any other questions?”

Both ensigns were silent. Both looked thoughtful, but that was as it should be. Murad had given them a lot to think about.

“Good. Then, gentlemen, you are dismissed to your duties.”

The two rose, saluted, and then left. There was a charming pause at the doorway as they silently wrangled over who should precede whom. In the end di Souza exited first, and Sequero followed him smiling unpleasantly.

Murad sat at his desk once more and steepled his fingers together. He did not like di Souza’s emphasis on the priest. That was the last thing the King wanted-a cleric accompanying the ships westward to send back reports to the Prelate of Hebrion. It would seem odd, though, to the men not to have one.

He shook his head angrily. He felt like a warhorse beset by horseflies. It would be better once they were at sea and he had his own little kingdom to rule. And the Saints protect anyone who tried to gainsay him.

He opened the locked drawer of the desk and heaved out an ancient-looking book, much battered and stained. Hawkwood had sent him a letter, in his insolence, asking for a perusal of it. It was the rutter of the Cartigellan Faulcon’s master, the ship which had returned an empty and leaking hulk to the shores of Hebrion over a century before, with no thing living on board save a werewolf.

He flipped through the worn tome, squinting sometimes at the spidery scrawl of the entries. Finally he lit a candle, shut the door and sat peering at page after page in the yellow light as though it were the middle of the night. The parade-ground noises faded. In the sour salt and water smell of the rutter it seemed he was transported to another age, and heard instead the slap and rush of waves against a wooden hull, the creak of timbers working, the flap of canvas.

On leaving Abrusio, steer west-south-west with the wind on the starboard bow. With the Hebrian trade, it is 240 turns of the glass or five kennings to North Cape in the Hebrionese. Half a kenning from the shore the lead will find white sand at 40 fathoms. Change course to due west and keep on the latitude of North Cape for 42 days more of good sailing. Thereafter the trade veers to north-north-west. With the wind on the starboard bow it is 36 days more on that latitude before sounding will find a shelving shore from 100 fathoms and shallowing. At 80 fathoms there will be shells and white clay, and land will be a kenning and a half away. Keep a good lookout and at 30 fathoms there will be sighted green hills and a white strand. There is a bay there one league north of the latitude of North Cape. Behind it stands a mountain with two summits, clothed in trees. Stand off and let go anchor in fifteen fathoms. Low surf, high water when moon is north-north-west and south-south-east. A sixth of a league inland there is a sweet spring. Greenstuff is to be found all along the shore, and fruit. Winds freshen coming on to late autumn. Use the best bow and a stern anchor or else she is liable to drag in the soft ground.

These instructions had I from the rutter of the Godspeed’s master, gone to his rest these three hundred years and eleven, the Lord God rest his soul. I am-

Tyrenius Cobrian Master, Cartigellan Faulcon St. Mateo’s Eve Year of the Blessed Saint, 421

Murad knuckled his eyes irritably. So much of what was written in the rutter seemed to him utterly incomprehensible, though no doubt to a sailor it would make perfect sense. He was not going to let Hawkwood see this, though. No, he would give the good captain as much information as it suited him to give.

Conjoined to the rutter was the log of the Faulcon, and it made better reading though there were still long lines of boring entries.

16th day of Enmian 421. Wind NNW, fresh. Course due west. 206 leagues out of Abrusio by dead-reckoning. Four knots with courses and topsails. Killed the last pig, weight 123lbs. Body of Jann Toft of Hebriero, seaman, this day committed to the deep. May the Lord God have mercy on his soul. Hands employed about the ship. Re-caulked the cutter.

It was the record of an uneventful voyage westwards. The health of the crew seemed good apart from a few minor accidents, and there was only one major storm.

14th day of Forlion 421. Wind NNW backing to NW. Running before the wind under bare poles. Three foot of water in the hold. Preventer-stays aloft and eight men on the tiller. Estimate we are making over eight knots, and have been blown some fifteen leagues to SE.

15th day of Forlion 421. Wind NW, slacking. Course due west under unbonneted topsails. Speed three knots. Hands employed pumping ship and knotting and splicing rigging. Small cutter carried away. Seaman Gabriel Timian unaccounted for when all hands called in the forenoon watch. Ship searched from tops to bilge, but no sign. Presumed lost overboard, may God have mercy on him.

From here the log began to grow more interesting.

22nd day of Forlion 421. Wind NNW, moderate breeze. Course WNW, wind on starboard bow. Four knots, under topsails and mizzen course. Estimate we are three leagues south of North Cape latitude. 37 days out of Abrusio.

The first mate has reported to me that three casks of salt meat have been broken in the hold and their contents half gone. Hands restless at being so long out of sight of land. Gave speech in first dog-watch to encourage hands. Isreel Hobin, bosun’s mate, stated our voyage was cursed. Had him put in irons in the bilge.

23rd day of Forlion 421. Wind NNW. Course due west. Four knots under unbonneted courses and topsails. By cross-staff reckoning we are back on North Cape latitude.

Isreel Hobin found dead in irons this day. Hands frightened. First mate, John Maze of Gabrir, reported privately to me that Hobin’s throat had been torn out. Doubled the men on the night watches at their own request. The hands believe something haunts the ship.

24th day of Forlion 421. Wind NNW. Course due west. Six knots under courses and topsails. 215 leagues due west of Abrusio by dead-reckoning.

This day committed the body of Isreel Hobin, bosun’s mate, to the deep. May the Lord have mercy on his soul. All hands engaged in carrying out search of the ship, but nothing found. Passengers worried and hands uneasy. May the Blessed Saint watch over us all, and give me the strength to take us across this accursed ocean.

The Blessed Saint must indeed have been watching over Tyrenius, for the Faulcon made landfall five and a half weeks later, dropping anchor in a sheltered bay on the Western Continent. By that time three more crewmen had disappeared without trace, presumed lost overboard, and the crew were refusing to venture down into the deeper, darker parts of the ship below the hold.

Murad poured himself more wine. There was no sound from the parade ground outside; it must have been near time for the men’s evening meal. He sat and stared at page after page of the century-old log, his puckered scar twitching as he went over the entries one by one.

Something had been aboard the ship with them, that much was clear. But had it been the shifter which was the Faulcon’s sole occupant on its arrival back off the shore of Hebrion, or was there something else? In any case, the men had been glad to leave the ship on making landfall. Tyrenius could not even prevail upon them to mount an anchor watch. They had all slept ashore, save one.

The master had stayed with his vessel, had slept alone on board whilst the crew threw up shelters on the shore. A brave man, this Tyrenius, to face down his own fear and stick by his duty. Murad drank a silent toast to him.

8th day of Endorion 421. Wind NNW, veering to north, light breeze. One foot swell. At anchor.

This day I named the bay in which we rest Essequibo Bay after our good king of Astarac, whose humble subject I am. Crew on shore gathering provisions and preparing with certain of the passengers to mount an expedition into the interior. I remain aboard alone, for no man will stand with me in this hour.

Here the clipped, precise nature of the entry slipped and the jagged uprightness of Tyrenius’ handwriting became more ragged. The pen-strokes began flying both higher and lower along the line, and tiny spatters of ink here and there spoke of the force he was exerting on his quill. He had been drinking, Murad guessed, trying to swallow his fear.

It is the last glass of the middle watch, and only I remain on the ship to turn the glass and keep the time which we have kept faithfully since leaving Abrusio. I hear the ship moving on the swell, and I think of the faces of the men whose lives this voyage has claimed. In the last First Watch one of the men swore he saw a pair of eyes staring up out of the open hatchway at him. Bright eyes, glowing in the night. After that no one would remain on board save me. But Sweet Blessed Saints forgive me, I do not remain on this ship out of duty alone. Fear also keeps me at my post.

Half a glass ago I was on deck, watching the fires of the men on the shore burning in the night, and something came up out of the main hatch, something monstrous. It padded across the deck whilst I remained on the quarterdeck above, and then it slipped over the rail and into the sea with never a splash to mark its passing. I saw it once, the dark head of it breasting the swell as it struck out for shore, and then it was gone. I sit here now and know that whatever unholy thing it was that took ship with us is gone. It is ashore, among the men on the beaches-whilst they sleep on under the trees, believing themselves safe. May God forgive me, I cannot leave the ship. I must sit and wait, and watch for the return of my men and whatever stories of horror they may bring with them. I would to God that we had a priest with us in this God-forsaken land, if only to give the last blessing which our frail souls crave before the final closing of death’s curtain.

There were pages missing from the log, ripped out. Some of them Murad had removed himself, lest the King see them in his brief perusal of the volume; but others had been removed long before. Murad found himself staring at one page which seemed to have been spattered with thick, black ink. It was blood, old blood, and it had soaked through several pages, gluing them irrevocably together.

He sat back, trying to clear his head of the mouldy parchment smell, breathing in instead the dry heat of Hebrion in late summer.

Tyrenius’ passengers-who had they been? And had they remained there in the west, or had they taken ship back with him to the Kingdoms of God? Whatever they had done, not one had survived to tell his story; all that was left of it was housed in the fragments of the document that was now before Murad.

It had to be a shifter, the same that had jumped from the ship on its return to Hebrion; but its behaviour tallied with nothing that Murad knew about the beasts. And why had it taken ship with the Faulcon in the first place? Had it signed on as a crew member in human form, or had it stowed away as a beast? The former was far more likely.

Murad flipped back to the rutter, turning page after page with a frown until he found what he was looking for. There.

Sailing directions for the western route as per the rutter of the Godspeed, bound out of Abrusio in the year of the Saint 109, Pinarro Albayero Master. Given to me by Tobias of Garmidalan, Duke of East Astarac, this 14th day of Miderialon 421 on the understanding that the rutter be destroyed after the relevant parts are copied. Witnessed by Ahern Abbas, Mage to the Court of King Essequibos of Astarac.

That reference to an earlier voyage was not unique; there were others throughout the rutter. It seemed that high-ranking men from both Hebrion and Astarac had sailed into the west three centuries before the Faulcon’s ill-fated voyage. Tyrenius had been able to draw from their experience in his own journey, which meant they must have sent a ship back at some point. If so, what had happened to them, out in the west? There was no reference to finding them or their descendants in the Faulcon’s log. If they had not come back in the returning ship then they must have died there and left nothing but their bones for posterity.

It was hard to be sure, though. So much of Tyrenius’ log had been removed. There were cryptic references to the earlier expedition, talk of sorcery and madness; a fever that struck down men and destroyed their reason. Darker still were veiled references to theurgical experiments carried out by the members of the first expedition-experiments that had gone badly awry.

What it added up to, Murad thought, was that there had been two previous expeditions to the west, the first sponsored by what seemed to be a group of high-born mages, the second by the government-or at least some of the nobility-of Astarac. Both had ended in disaster; but had the first disaster somehow contributed to the second?

Murad stared moodily into the candlelit depths of his wine. Here he was, again sailing into the west, again with a crowd of sorcerers on board. But the earlier voyages had not had Hebrian soldiery as part of their complement. Or Murad of Galiapeno, he added to himself.

He looked again over the part of Tyrenius’ log that detailed the anchorage he called Essequibo Bay. From the description, the Western Continent seemed rich, heavily vegetated, and uninhabited.

He flipped the pages. More of the crew had died in Essequibo Bay, and the expedition into the interior had been abandoned. They had reprovisioned and sailed away leaving nothing behind.

Nothing at all, for the beast had been back on board ship by the time they had weighed anchor. Two weeks out to sea, and the first disappearances had begun. The return voyage had been a nightmare. A dwindling ship’s company, contrary winds, and terror down in the hold.

The last pages of the log were missing. There was no word of how Tyrenius had met his end, or how he had managed to pilot his ship to the very coasts he had left six months before. The writing was hard to decipher. It shook and scratched as though written in haste or terrible apprehension. Murad was surprised to find that he pitied long-dead Tyrenius and his haunted crew. They had found hell within the wooden walls of a ship, and had carried it with them across half the world and back again.

There was a knock on the door and he started, spilling his wine. He cursed and snapped: “Who is it?”

“Renaldo, my lord, come with your supper.”

“Enter.”

His servant eased the door open and entered bearing a wooden tray. He cleared a space on the large table and began to set out a place. Murad put away the log and rutter and sat down before a plate of sliced roast boar and wild mushrooms, fresh-baked bread and olives, and a chunk of gleaming goat’s cheese.

“Will that be all, sir?” Renaldo asked.

Murad was still screwing up his eyes against the flood of light that the open door admitted. He was surprised to see it, for he had thought it later in the day. But he liked to eat early; it gave him a chance to ride up to the city afterwards if he felt in need of amusement.

“Yes. You are dismissed.”

The servant left, and Murad paused a moment in his tearing of the fragrant bread. They were sailing in eight days. There was time enough to call off the voyage.

He shook his head incredulously, wondering what had prompted that thought. This was the chance he had been waiting for all his life, the chance to carve out a principality for himself. He could not throw it away.

As he ate, though, not tasting the food, he could see in his mind’s eyes the picture of a deserted ship sailing across an endless ocean with a dead man’s hand on the tiller. And the eyes of a beast burning as bright as candles in the depths of its hold.