How the Axe Falls

Chapter 10

The Spit's (an interesting choice of name, Talon thought, for The Captain's most prized possession) deck was a hive of activity. Even more so than usual.

Crewmembers, grouped in twos and threes, danced amongst the masts, as if trapped in a trance. Barking orders left and right atop the quarterdeck, The Captain kept this organised chaos from splitting at the seams, without ever looking up from his wheel. Talon wagered the man could command the skimmer just as well if were mute. Where his face looked weathered and weary, the blue of his eyes had an ageless quality about them – all the darting sharpness of youth splashed with cold certainty. Any man who slacked, for even a moment, stiffened when those blue eyes turned his way. All those shouted words were just habitual, it was truly The Captain's eyes that did all the talking for him.

No matter how skilled The Captain was, however, the journey had not been particularly smooth. Even if it was, by The Captain's estimation, "quicker than Ducard's dreadnought do manage."

At the best of times, The Spit bobbed in the Narrow Seas in an almost hypnotic fashion that simultaneously made one's eyes heavy and their stomach turn. At the worst, Talon felt as if he were shut in a barrel wedged between two hills, rolling up and down relentlessly between the two amidst a thunderstorm.

There was nothing graceful about throwing up the day's meals over The Spit's railing, especially when he was seemingly the only one to struggle with the ship's incessant rocking. He doubted even Cleo, with her Queenly composure, could pull off dangling over the sea without earning the raucous laughs he'd garnered over the journey.

Not that his kidnapper seemed to be in the least bit bothered. He found her leaning coolly against the rails, green eyes watching bare-chested sailors scampering back and forth with ropes hauled over muscled shoulders. Her eyes seemed to narrow ever so slightly between the men and she'd cock her head a touch, as if silently evaluating each one of them.

He quickly regretted joining her where she stood, having already been knocked to his backside twice by oncoming crew. Some laughed as they went passed, others more irritable as they spat a 'watch it!' over the ropes on their backs. He may as well have tried to slip through a herd of charging bulls.

'You woke,' Cleo greeted him upon his arrival, more battered and bruised than when he had left his cabin.

Talon frowned at that. Her level tone made it difficult to tell whether she was poking fun at him.

His animosity towards the girl at his forced departure from Borne was slowly waning day-by-day. Perhaps it was because she had saved his life and perhaps for other reasons too embarrassing to put to words. As far as he was concerned though, she still owed him a life – a life she claimed she had never taken. He could feel the need to spill blood bubbling up inside him fierce enough to boil the Narrow Seas.

'Mornin',' Talon planted his forearms over the rail and drew in a deep breath to stave off the mounting somersaults of his empty stomach.

A dark grey haze rose up in the distance, vague square-shapes standing out from the sea like corporeal shadows.

He watched the shadows closely as they drew closer, becoming more defined, more real to his eye. Talon wasn't sure how long they stood there together, she staring past at one expanse of water, and he at another, before he broke the silence.

'Why did ye' bring me?' He thought he spied a wry smile touching the corner of Cleo's lips briefly.

'You decided to come on your own, farmboy,' she said. 'Besides, like I said, I know of someone who would care to meet you.'

Talon could hear his teeth grinding together at the effort of not reminding her again of the small fact that he'd had a dagger in his side at the time. Yet still, she wouldn't tell him anything. The girl guarded her words more jealously than a dragon its horde of gold.