“Don’t . . . break your . . . oath. Don’t.”
For a second, Wulf felt pressure against his hand. Then Ulf’s eyes fluttered closed again and his hand went limp. Panic rose in Wulf’s chest.
“Ulf?” he said frantically. “Ulf? Are you all right?”
Maajid had been monitoring Ulf’s vital signs and he nodded reassuringly.
“He’s all right. He’s resting. It took a lot of effort for him to say that,” he added meaningfully.
Wulf tore his gaze away from his brother’s face and looked up at Hal. “All right. I’ll come with you. But if anything happens . . .”
Hal squeezed his shoulder a little harder. “Nothing is going to happen. Understand? In fact, it’s going to be a lot more dangerous where we’re going. If you want to worry about something, worry about that.”
Wulf looked up at him and Hal grinned reassuringly. Wulf tried to grin in return. It was a faint effort, but it was something, Hal thought.
“Stay here with him until we’re ready to leave,” he said. “That won’t be for a day or two so you may well see some improvement.”
“Thanks, Hal,” Wulf muttered.
The skirl took a deep breath, made eye contact with Maajid and mouthed the word thanks. The Tabib nodded and Hal turned and left the hospital tent.
• • • • •
That evening, Hal strolled along the wall with Selethen and Gilan while they discussed plans for the voyage east.
“I’m sorry I won’t be able to come with you,” Selethen said. “I’ve got a lot on my hands here, trying to get the town back in order.”
“Maajid said you’d be here for some time,” Hal said.
Selethen looked at him. “How is your wounded man doing?”
Hal glanced out at the desert, past the lights of fires in Selethen’s camp outside the walls, into the deep purple darkness to the south.
“Maajid is confident that he’ll be all right,” he said finally and the Wakir nodded in satisfaction.
“If Maajid is confident, then I’m sure he will be.”
The wind, which had been constant all day, gradually died away. The rustling flags and awnings on the battlements lay still and undisturbed for a few minutes, then they began to stir again. But now the wind had shifted to the south. Hal, whose life depended so much on the wind, took notice. He turned around, facing the new breeze, smelling the hot, dry scent of the desert.
“Does it always do that?”
Selethen and Gilan looked at him in surprise.
“Does what always do that?” Selethen asked.
Hal gestured vaguely at the air around them. “The wind. It just backed to the south. It’s been blowing from the north all day, and it just backed.”
“Oh . . . yes. It does,” Selethen replied. The wind wasn’t as big a factor in his life. He was used to it and he accepted it. He frowned now as he tried to explain it.
“During the day, the sun heats the desert so the hot air rises. And the cooler air from the sea sweeps in. Then, at night, the desert cools and loses its heat. The air over the sea is relatively warmer and the breeze shifts.”
“Every day?” Hal said, looking around with interest. His brow was furrowed.
Selethen nodded. “Every day. Sometimes, if it gets too strong, it whips up a Khamsin—a dust storm.” He smiled at Gilan. “You remember what that’s like?”
Gilan nodded emphatically. “Only too well.” On his previous visit to Arrida, the mixed party of Skandians and Araluens had been caught in a devastating dust storm. “The sand was everywhere. You couldn’t see your hand in front of your face.”
But Hal wasn’t listening to their exchange. He was continuing to look upward, turning his face to the south so that the steady breeze fell directly on it. The breeze grew stronger by the minute. Heron would make good speed under it. He frowned as the others continued to reminisce about the dust storm that had engulfed them some years previously. He barely heard them.
There was something significant about this breeze, he thought. Something significant about the constant, unvarying wind that blew throughout the day.
It seemed to him that there was a problem he’d been thinking about and that this factor might have something to do with it. He tried to summon up whatever it was that he had been thinking about but, as was always the case, the harder he tried, the more the idea receded.
Finally, he sighed with frustration. “I’m sure it’ll come to me.”
His two friends stopped and looked at him. He realized that he’d spoken the thought aloud.
“What’ll come to you?” Gilan asked, but Hal shook his head and dismissed the question.
“Nothing. Nothing important,” he said. But he sensed that that wasn’t the truth.
PART THREE
EPHESA
chapter thirty-two
They made good time sailing east along the coast, with the wind constantly blowing on their beam—their best point of sailing. Heron cut smoothly through the clear water—green colored now that there was a sand bottom barely ten meters below their keel. The system of reefs and shoals stretching north from Tabork into the Constant Sea presented no problem for them, as there was a clear passage close inshore.
The weather was good, the swell was smooth and the wind was abeam. It should have been a pleasant time. With no need for constant tacking and sail handling and with the kilometers rolling steadily beneath the keel, the crew should have been relaxing, enjoying the sun. But a strangely subdued mood had settled over the members of the brotherband. There was little conversation, other than what was necessary for the running of the ship.
Hal frowned as he and Stig stood by the steering platform. Stig had just taken over the helm and Hal remained close by. He wasn’t tired and he knew if he stretched out on his blankets, he’d lie awake, worrying about his crew.
“They’re very quiet,” he said eventually.
Stig looked sidelong at him. “And you’re complaining about that? It’s a pleasant change from the bickering and nattering that they usually go on with.”
Hal said nothing for a minute or two. He studied the crew carefully. None of them seemed interested in talking to one another. He could sense a feeling of unease.
“It’s Ulf,” he said finally. “They’re worried about Ulf.”
“Not surprising. No matter what the healers say, things can always take a turn for the worse.”
Ulf was their first serious casualty since Ingvar had been struck down by an arrow in the fighting at Limmat many months ago. The fact that he was so seriously wounded hung over them like a pall. But on top of that, there was something else, Hal realized.
“It’s more than that. They’re worried about him, of course. But they’re missing his constant wrangling with Wulf.”
Stig looked surprised. “Who could miss that?” But then he realized that Hal was right. The twins, with their ridiculous arguing, provided a diversion for the crew during the long hours at sea. Plus there was the additional spice added by the fact that, at any moment, Hal could tire of them and order Ingvar to throw one, or both, of them overboard.
That was always something to look forward to, he realized. But without that continual distraction, the hours seemed empty and strangely lacking. If the weather would worsen, or the wind shift, they would have something to do, something to take their mind off things. But as it was, all they had to do was sit there with the ship trimmed to the wind, while she swooped gently over the swell on her way east.
“I think you’re right,” Stig said, at length. “And I never thought I’d say it, but I do actually miss all their nonsense.”
Hal let his gaze wander over the crew.
Wulf was sitting disconsolately at his station by the trimming sheets. Usually, he would be accompanied by Ulf, but now, of course, he was alone. Jesper was in the bow, lea
ning on the bow post and keeping a bored lookout over the sea ahead and the coastline to starboard. Stefan and Edvin sat opposite Wulf, ready at the halyards if there was a need to change sails. But there had been no such need for hours and Edvin was idly picking the stitches out of a woolen scarf he had been knitting. Apparently, he wasn’t content with the result and was unpicking it to knit it again. Stefan stared at the deck below his feet, seemingly mesmerized by the planks.
Ingvar was leaning on the canvas-shrouded Mangler. He was wearing his spectacles and staring out at the sea. He spent a lot of time doing that these days. He never seemed to tire of the fact that now he could actually see the water surrounding them, and the coastline slipping by to starboard. Of all the crew, he alone showed any sign of animation or interest.
Even Kloof seemed affected by the atmosphere on board. She lay on her stomach in the bow, her forepaws thrust out and her massive head resting on them. Her tail, which usually stirred back and forth, warning of some form of mischief she had in mind, lay still on the deck behind her.
As he watched, Hal saw Thorn stir from his normal position against the mast. The old warrior heaved himself to his feet with a sigh, cast a long look around the horizon, then moved a few meters to where Lydia was sitting in the stern rowing benches, idly running a sharpening stone over the blade of her dirk. She had been sharpening it for most of the morning, Hal thought. If she kept it up, there would be no blade left.
She glanced up suspiciously as Thorn settled onto the bench beside her. Lydia was all too conscious of the fact that Thorn was always ready to tease her about something. But that didn’t seem to be the case today. Hal watched, unnoticed by either of them, as Thorn leaned closer to her and said something in a lowered voice. She looked at Thorn for a few seconds with a surprised expression on her face, then swung her gaze around the crew. Realizing she would be looking his way any moment, Hal hastily averted his gaze so that he appeared to be concentrating on the wind telltale on the mast above him. But he continued to watch the two of them out of the corner of his eye.
Eventually, Lydia’s gaze returned to Thorn and she said something. He nodded, satisfied, and rose to return to his position by the mast.
Several minutes passed and Hal continued to watch curiously. Eventually, Lydia decided that the razor edge on her dirk couldn’t be improved, and slid it back into its sheath.
She reached into the leather satchel where she kept her personal items and produced a wooden comb. Loosening the tie that held her long hair back from her face, she began to comb it, stroking the comb smoothly through its long strands.
Thorn appeared to notice her for the first time. “You’re always doing that,” he said.
She glanced up at him, her face an impassive mask. “Doing what?”
He made a combing motion over his own shaggy hair. “Combing that hair of yours. You’re always doing it.”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “I do it once a day,” she replied. “But I suppose to someone like you, who combs his hair once a month, and does it with his wooden hook, it seems like I’m always doing it.”
Stefan had looked up at Thorn’s opening sally. Now, he gave a subdued snort of laughter at Lydia’s retort. Thorn affected not to notice him.
“I’ll have you know,” he said with some dignity, “that I comb my hair more frequently than once a month.”
“Is that right?” Lydia said, warming to her theme. “Then how come the last time you did it, a seagull flew out of it, with three hatchlings she’d been raising in there?”
Now there was a snicker of laughter from Edvin and Ingvar. Hal realized that the crew all had their attention focused on Thorn and Lydia. And for once, Thorn wasn’t getting the better of the interaction between them.
“The crafty old devil,” he said quietly to Stig. “He’s doing this on purpose to take the crew’s mind off Ulf.”
Stig nodded silently, watching the two antagonists to see what was coming next.
“You should just cut it short,” Thorn said and Lydia raised an eyebrow at him.
“Cut it short?” she repeated.
He nodded emphatically. “It’d be more stylish if you cut it short. More glamorous. Boys might take notice of you that way.”
“Which boys might they be?” Lydia asked, her voice deceptively sweet.
Thorn shrugged. “No particular boys. Just boys in general. Rollond, maybe.” He grinned as he said the name. Rollond was a boy back in Hallasholm who was totally smitten by Lydia. Unfortunately for him, she didn’t return the sentiment.
Now all eyes on board were on the two of them, switching from one to the other as they followed the dialogue. At the mention of Rollond’s name, a few of them leaned forward expectantly. Rollond’s name was all too often like a red rag to a bull with Lydia.
“Let me make two things perfectly clear, old man,” Lydia said, and now there was a steely edge to her voice. “One: I do not plan on taking hints on hair styles and grooming from someone who looks like he was dragged backward through a blackberry bush.”
“That’s a little harsh,” Thorn said, trying to sound dignified. The attempt failed when a low snicker of laughter ran round the members of the crew. Even Wulf had a half grin on his face, Hal noticed.
But Lydia hadn’t finished. “And two, I’m not interested having ‘the boys,’ be it Rollond or anyone else, take notice of me. Is that totally clear?”
Thorn shrugged. “Well, if you say. But I think it would be better if you cut it short. It would frame your face quite nicely.”
“I’ll frame your face for you, old man. I’ll frame it with a leather bucket. How would you like that?” Lydia replied.
Thorn shook his head and sighed. “Whatever happened to femininity?” he asked, of nobody in particular. The only reply was a general round of laughter from the crew. Thorn shook his head huffily.
“Time was when people respected their elders,” he said to nobody in particular.
He settled down, leaning his back against the mast once more, pulling his watch cap down over his eyes. Hal looked around the crew and took in the lightening of the mood on board. Nice work, Thorn, he thought to himself. Not for the first time, he realized how well the old sea wolf could read the crew’s mood, and then change it in an instant. Their previous lack of interest, the sense of ennui, was now gone and several of the Herons were exchanging amused glances. Time to keep their minds engaged, he thought, before they slipped back into their previous depression.
“I don’t like the look of that cape up ahead,” he said to Stig, in a voice that could be heard by the rest of the crew. “I think we’ll come a little farther to the north of it.”
In fact, he could tell that they would pass the cape with plenty of sea room to spare. But he thought it might be a good idea to give the crew some work to do.
“Hands to sailing stations!” he called. “We’re coming farther to port. Edvin, you can give Wulf a hand with the trimming.”
Ingvar called from the bow. “I can do that, Hal.”
But the skirl shook his head. “No. I want Edvin there. You’d probably pull the mast over.”
There was a ripple of laughter from the crew, with Ingvar joining in. His massive strength was a byword on board. Whenever he took an oar, the ship tended to veer away from the side he was rowing.
“Besides,” Hal called, “I want Edvin used to the job. If we go into action, I’ll need you on the Mangler.”
Ingvar nodded. That made sense. And Hal had another reason for choosing Edvin. As the second substitute helmsman, he was developing an instinctive feel for the ship’s movements and action—an instinct that would translate well to the task of sail trimming.
They brought the ship around to port, letting the sail out to accommodate the change of direction, then trimming it home. Wulf coached Edvin through the maneuver and Hal nodded to himself. It was good to see Wulf
occupied, not brooding over his twin’s injury.
After an hour on the new course, he brought the ship back to starboard, with plenty of sea room to weather the cape. Again, the crew settled down as the ship glided swiftly over the swell. But now the usual feeling of contentment was back and several of the crew exchanged snippets of conversation. After a while, Hal sensed someone was watching him and he glanced up to meet Thorn’s amused gaze. The old sea wolf tapped his nose with one forefinger, and slowly slid one eyelid closed in an enormous wink. Hal grinned and shrugged.
But the change in mood stayed with them and the atmosphere on board returned to normal. They were all still concerned for Ulf, of course, but now they accepted that he was in good hands. After two days, Wulf brightened visibly. He turned to Edvin, who was leaning on the bulwark beside him.
“Ulf’s going to be okay. He’s awake,” he said quietly.
Edvin regarded him with some interest. “How do you know?”
Wulf shrugged. “He’s my twin. I can feel it—somehow.” He was a little bewildered himself. He couldn’t put it into words but he was feeling that strange communication that happens between twins. “He’s hungry,” he added, with the same sense of “how did I know that?” in his voice.
Edvin put a hand on his shoulder and smiled at him. “Good.”
After that, the whole crew felt better about Ulf, content in the knowledge that he was on the mend.
On the afternoon of the third day, they sighted the buildings of Ephesa, shining white in the westering sun.
chapter thirty-three
From a kilometer out to sea, Ephesa looked to be a thriving town.
Yet as Heron sailed in and moored alongside the open water stone jetty that jutted out from the shore, it became obvious that the buildings were derelict. The walls and ornate columns still stood, but the roofs, which had been terracotta tiles placed over wooden support beams, had long since collapsed, giving the town a sad, abandoned air.
The buildings were gleaming white—stone and mortar faced with marble—and they rose in ranks on one side of the town, following the natural slope of a hill on the west.