I stand in the bow of the longboat as the crew drags it onto the beach, then quickly they crawl back inside, hands on handles of blades as if they could protect them from the dead. The sun is crawling into the sea to split apart so another yolk will rise tomorrow, or some such nonsense. I lost Aurochs treatise on natural philosophy off the coast of Syair and so am still ignorant of most of nature's mechanisms.
That isn't of concern right now or maybe it should be. I wonder what Auroch would make of this. My four Yeriveans are wearing the battle dress of their holy order, black leather all over, twin blades crisscrossed in scabbards across their backs. Yalta the oldest is carrying their banner, a skull, and crossbones with a smiley face. The four of them kneel in unison, slide daggers from their waist, run the blade across their palms. The sand on the beach is fine, white, kind of sand you don't mind having in your boots, almost but not quite a powder. This pristine transition from clear blue water to pillowy down dirt seems to contradict all that the prisoner told me until it doesn't.
Like spring flowers rising up after warm showers, the stem-like arms come up and the hands open in bloom, only they are not content to stay open. They reach out all along the shoreline hundreds of hands twisting clawing like they are looking for something lost, trying to find life by taking ours. A hand grabs Gina's boot tries to pull it down. Gina reaches out in time to hold her bloody hand over the smooth dead fleshy one, smears blood over it. It releases its hold. Now the women bend down, hunting, gripping, their bloody palms clasping, shaking like friends those that are dead. For they do not fear death and so they are the friends of the dead. The hands slide down into the sand, and one by one each of us climbs out of the boat. We take our blades and cut our palms, which to be fair is a really stupid and painful thing to do. I'd rather be stabbed by an enemy than to cut my own flesh. It's the anticipation of pain that makes it smart all the more. Not only that but I was a fool and cut my right palm, which is my sword hand, which isn't going to make any of this easier. Still, it looked tough when the Yeriveans did it so we all follow suit. There are thirteen of us here all shaking hands with the dead up and down the beach, thin bony hands free of hair and big strong battered hands like stonemasons all kinds we shake until we reach the edge of the jungle where the Yeriveans are standing.
They have three arrows in their bow hands and one arrow knocked, peering out into the shadowy brush that begins to sway in an offshore breeze. Our scent is being carried into the morass of plants and trees and who knows what all else. Still even with the wind at our backs I catch the smell of the palm, the honeysuckle, the earthy decaying detritus.
Brita, the youngest of the Yeriveans and arguably the finest looking, heart-shaped face, thin nose, sharp cheeks, eyes as blue as the deepest lagoon says, "I don't see anything. There's nothing out there."
I grit my teeth. It seems superstitious to make statements like that. It seems like as soon as you say something like that you are bound to find an ax stuck in your sternum because you gave life the chance to be ironic. Life is tricky like that. Only this time life is inverting my expectations. It isn't an ax. It is a spear, not in the sternum but in the guts, not Brita, but the ever vigilant Yalta.
It is charging us. My silver blade is halfway out of the scabbard before the furry blur breaks out of the brush. I race forward. I Pivot, swipe the thin blade in a figure-eight hoping it will see the silver and slow down. Maybe it does but it is hard to tell because all I see is a paw full of claws swiping at my head and the arm on this thing is like three times as big as one of mine and while it is on two legs its jackal like face has none of the anger or hatred or fear that a man has. It is nothing but menace. I duck its blow and thrust out three times. I'm not the biggest fighter, but I am fast, almost as fast as I used to be, which is kind of stupid thing to say. Still, I'm fast and I'm strong. I stab the beast six times before it swings again, tearing a chunk of meat off of my left shoulder and knocking me off my feet. I roll back up but it's too late; Phineas has hacked off the beast's head with his great sword.
Phineas is a barbarian, the kind of guy all guys wish they were, big loud, brash, full of swagger, dark hair down to his shoulders, shoulders that are wide as every door he tries to enter, solid, strong. He isn't the brightest though, snores, breaks wind constantly, and tells the same stories over and over again, so he's not perfect unless you need someone to hack off a man-jackal's head.
The body of the jackal thing is still striking out only erratically, trying to coordinate with its head which still seems to be alive. Phineas is slow but not stupid. He understands the situation immediately, picks up the head lets it drop as his boot comes up, contact is made and the head sails far into the outgoing tide. He hacks off the legs and arms and the writhing torso is pretty much harmless.
I drop down beside Yalta. "You have to stay alive. You know what this could mean for us. We are almost there."
"I Valta Santanwa." She splutters, stammers some more. "Malthena Doer."
Yalta understands what I am saying but won't demean herself by speaking to me in the common tongue. I turn to Gina for translation.
Gina's face is twisted. She wipes away tears on her cheek with the back of her bloody hand. "She says she will do whatever you command."
"This is no time for sarcasm, Yalta. You have a mutinous heart. You are constantly undermining my command. I spend half my time putting down your attempts to poison or kill me in my sleep."
Yalta groans."I ta tua vuan Gotta. Whoa ton suer. San yegan von bost. Salla con tuan."
Gina sniffs. "She says you are too sensitive. A captain who can't accept criticism will get complacent and make mistakes. It is good to have someone to keep you alert to danger."
"Ok Yalta. Just stay alive a little while longer. We will soon regain our youth."
Yalta shakes her head. "Donna suer tong vant gon."
Gina translates instantly. "This will end in failure just like everything else you try."
Yalta rolls onto her side and starts to choke. Gina holds her head up so she doesn't drown on her own blood.
I throw my silver-plated sword onto the sand. Maybe I shouldn't have skimped. I should have fashioned a blade of pure silver. But after we melted down all our forks I decided to cut some corners and tried to save the spoons. I wasn't going to have the crew trying to eat Mick's gruel with their hands.
I take one of Yalta's long swords. Gina gives me a dirty look. I give her one right back. "She still has another one. Phineas will stand guard over her. "
Phineas shakes his head. "I'm going captain." He holds up the bits of wax. "I can't hear anything when I put these in. I won't break when the sirens call."
I look him over, it would be a shame to leave the barbarian behind. "Who volunteers to stay with Yalta?"
No one steps forward which is either a testament to their loyalty and eagerness to fight or maybe Yalta's constant backbiting didn't endear her to the rest of the crew. We leave Yalta to tend to herself.
