In Search of Spice, page 11
“No, mistress,” came an instant response. “We were sworn to the Noble Hilario whom you have honoured. We are yours.”
“You heard my orders. Free the slaves and take everything on the main ship. I want everything done within thirty minutes, then draw up in ranks on the main deck and introduce yourselves to me.”
Sara hesitated a moment, wanting to sheath her blade before climbing back, but reluctant to sheath it without cleaning it. A Spakka warrior, really a boy, knelt at her feet, head bowed and hands up.
“I beg the honour of cleaning the blade, Mistress. It has done great service this day and is a Noble weapon even though so small.” His voice was hushed and awed, breaking slightly and she saw his sparse beard, guessing he was even younger. She dropped it into his hands and swarmed up the rope back onto the ship.
Strachan was forming the soldiers up into a party to bring up the loot from the longship, while Little was tending to Mactavish. Russell was trying to get the Bosun to tell him if she wanted the wood from the longships, while she still expected an attack.
“Sara,” cried an irritated Sergeant Russell, “go and have a word with the Captain, see if he wants to haul those longships on board or have us chop them away. Good job, by the way.”
Sara smiled, threw him a snappy, regulation and totally un-mercenary salute, and climbed up the ladder to the poop deck.
“Both longships and all survivors surrendered, sir,” she snapped briskly, “the slaves are being released and the vessels stripped. Do you want the wood or indeed the entire longships pulled aboard? I gave instructions for the slaves and warriors to muster on the deck in half an hour so you can count them up and allocate them to quarters.”
“Allocate them to quarters?” The Captain spluttered. “Damn it, I’ll rescue the slaves, but we’ll set adrift the survivors in one of the longships. I don’t want the bloody things.”
“Oh, I am so sorry sir,” said Sara contritely, wondering how to get out of this. “I took their oath to stop them fighting. Spakka don’t surrender, but they will change sides if their Noble gives them away. I got to him before he died, to stop us killing them all.”
“Before he died?” Brian interjected. “You rammed your sword through his skull.”
“Spakka honour, sir. It is their cult of a warrior. We learn all about it on the frontier.”
“Funny how a mercenary would know that,” said the Captain, suspiciously. “Such a young one, too. Never mind. So we have a bunch more crewmen. Brian, I want an injury and a damage report as fast as you can, and you and the Bosun can decide what to do with those damn longships. Sara, you took an oath from these warriors.”
She nodded, smiling guardedly.
“So they are loyal to you. What about to me, and the ship?”
Sara opened her mouth to reply and stopped, mouth agape. Snapping it shut, she started. “I am so sorry, sir, I wasn’t thinking. I assumed they would be taking oath to you and the ship, but I don’t know. Honour is very important to them, but I don’t know how it works when a subordinate takes them over on behalf of another officer. I’ll ask Mactravis, he’ll know.”
“Do that,” Captain Larroche dismissed her, and she went, chagrined. It was dawning on her she had not exactly been acting in character, but she was still high on adrenaline.
Lieutenant Mactravis had his armour off and was in the galley where Perryn treated his bruised skull, along with several other sailors with various gashes, bruises, broken bones and a highly embarrassed Pat who was trying to escape. Nils was unconscious on a pallet in the corner, Else tending him, with his shoulders wrapped in bandages. Two bodies lay wrapped in canvas on the floor, and one sailor lay unconscious with the stump of his arm raised in the air, smelling of the hot tar with which Walters sealed the raw wound
“What happened to you?” Sara asked Pat, where Terri and Rat had him cornered, waiting his turn.
“It’s nothing,” he mumbled, hanging his head and not looking at her, going bright red. Sara was immediately fascinated
“It’s his fingers,” said Terri, importantly.
“Silly bastard kept firing, ripped his skin off,” said Rat, grinning.
“Often happens when you’re out of practice,” Pat mumbled, trying to leave. “I’ll be fine.”
“Archer!” snapped Lieutenant Mactravis from across the room in a very irritated tone. “You will wait and be examined by the priest. Is that clear?”
“Yessir,” mumbled Pat, looking at his fingers.
“Look at me when I give you an order, boy!” Mactravis’ tone had gone very cold. “A soldier’s first job is to ensure he is ready to fight at peak condition. We might have another load of longships in half an hour, and you have a better chance of being ready with the priest.”
Pat started and looked into Mactravis’ level eyes. “Yes Sir. Sorry Sir.” He made an attempt at a salute that made Sara bite her lip to keep herself from laughing. Mactravis returned to Perryn who was inspecting his eyes and Sara whispered in Pat’s ear.
“He’s treating you like one of his own men. Big compliment.” She pinched his arm affectionately, not noticing Terri’s glare, and went off to Mactravis.
“Sir, Captain’s compliments, we need some information about the Spakka,” she saluted, unconsciously giving a perfect Rangers salute.
“Well, tell him what you know, damn it,” he answered with a growl, glaring at Perryn who was manipulating his skull. “That hurts, damn you!”
“Sorry,” said Perryn, clearly not.
“I don’t know, is the trouble, sir,” Sara continued doggedly. “The warriors I picked up, do I just hand them over to the Captain? What do I tell them?”
Mactravis looked at her. “Well Miss Mercenary who just happens to speak Spakka, why don’t you ask the Spakka?”
Sara flushed. “If you want, sir, but I thought you would know and it might be better to check with you first. I shall speak with them.” She turned to go.
“Wait,” he said, grabbing her arm, feeling the muscle. “What mercenary company were you with, that knows about parasols and can even form a decent wall? I’ve never seen a woman mercenary under thirty and you’re, what? Seventeen?”
“Ah,” said Sara, thinking furiously and cursing herself. “Well, I was with a few, since I was a kid. Mum was a merc, trained me up. Was with Constantine’s last.”
“No you weren’t. I know Constantine’s officers, you weren’t one of them and he doesn’t have any under 30.”
“I wasn’t an officer, sir.”
“Then why were you giving commands to my men, and to me, damn it, and we obeyed you? How do you know the Battle Song? Why do you take an officer’s position in a wall as if trained to it? Why do you speak Spakka and know more of their customs and rituals than I do?” Suspicion was glinting in his eyes, anger lurking behind it. “There’s only been one girl on the frontier,” he began and his eyes flared wide with shock and he fell silent, mouth still open.
The blood rushed to Sara’s face and she pulled her arm free of his weakened grip. “I’ll speak with the Spakka now, sir.” She fled the room, hearing a sudden bark of laughter from the Lieutenant, conscious of all the eyes staring at her curiously.
Outside the longship, she pressed her shoulders to the door, hearing the questions flying at the Lieutenant and was relieved as he ignored them all. She felt hot tears behind her lids, and repeated her silent mantra from her childhood. “A Starr Princess does not cry!”
The emotion ebbed, she smiled grimly, took control of herself and went to look for the Spakka.
As she appeared on the main deck, the Spakka were bringing up the last of the spoils from the longships. The Bosun was assessing the ex-slaves, and she could see lots of tears. Presumably, many were Harrhein. The boy was looking round, holding her sword and he saw her first, striding over proudly, going down on one knee and proffering the sword.
She took it from him and inspected it minutely. As well as cleaning it, he had greased it and sharpened it, removing a tiny nick that had bothered her.
“I did not tell you to sharpen her.”
The boy smacked down onto the floor, prostrate at her feet. He grabbed her left foot and lifted it up, putting it on his head. Not expecting this, she nearly fell over and just kept her balance.
“Mistress, yours is a sword of power, a famous weapon, such must always be tended. I feared you would kill me if I did not tend it correctly. Please, Mistress, may I know the name of your sword?”
“She is Lady Strike. Now, I need information. Can you give it to me or do I need to ask an older warrior?” She placed the rapier in the sheath on her belt and took her foot off his head.
“Mistress, I will answer if it is within my knowledge. I doubt the others will know more than I.” He grabbed her foot and put it back on his head.
“Why not? You are but a youth?”
“I am Noble born, Mistress. Noble Hilario was my father.”
Sara was shocked, and blinked several times, wondering what to say. She took her foot off. The youth replaced it hurriedly, hanging on more firmly now and spoke again.
“Mistress, as a dutiful son, I wish to express the thanks of my House for the honour you gave my father. It is rare for us to meet honour in battle and few of our people gain the honour of a true death as you gave my father. I will be your sword carrier for five years and a day, the full term, in gratitude, before returning to my house to sing your praises.”
Sara was alarmed. “Five years? Will all the men wish to serve the same term?”
“No Mistress. Most will, but some have wives and children and will return to them after the first year.”
“I am not Spakka, and I do not know your customs. I honour everyone where I can. You must help me to understand. Will you do that?”
“Yes Mistress.”
“”What is your name?”
“Janis, Mistress, Janis Cederroth.”
“Well, Janis, I am a serving officer on this ship, the Queen Rose.” She hoped the Captain would forgive her promotion. “Does your honour go to me or my superiors?”
“Superiors, Mistress?” In his surprise, Janis released her foot and she could stand properly. “Are you not the Princess?”
“What do you know of the Princess?”
“We were told you would be on the Great Ship, it was why we put such an effort into trying to capture it. A message was sent from our spies. Noble Hilario asked especially for the boarding honour as you honoured his friend on the frontier.”
Sara sighed. Did everyone know who she was? “Right, well tell your men that although I am the Princess, I am in disguise and serving on this ship. Nobody is to refer to me as Princess or Asmara. I am Sara, just Sara.”
Janis digested this for a moment. Sara noticed that most of the Spakka were listening in with great interest. “We will call you Mistress, then,” he said with great finality, and the listening Spakka all murmured in agreement. Sara ground her teeth.
“Very well. On the ship you will train with the Harrhein soldiers and report to their commander. The Captain of the ship is Larroche. You will obey him and his officers.”
The Spakka murmured again, definitely not in agreement.
“No,” said Janis, “you have our honour. We obey you and only you.”
“I have other duties. I cannot nursemaid you all the time,” she sneered in perfect Spakka style, as light dawned and she realised how to talk to them. “You will train under Lieutenant Mactravis. I will check your training. I expect you to become proficient. You will also learn Harrhein language and customs. If required to sail the ship, you will do so and follow orders given by ships officers. When I decide to act as Princess, you will form part of my honour guard IF you measure up. Fail me and you will feed sharks.”
This was clearly correct as the entire contingent threw themselves to the floor and snaked over to her. The first reached her, grasped her foot and placed it on his head.
“I am Andreas Esbech. My honour is yours, Mistress, for the full five years.” A huge bearded warrior, missing an eye in a long and livid scar. She nodded and the procession began, while crewmembers came out to watch. Sara noted that they were all saying five years, and it was not till they came to the last few, older men, that they started to say, apologetically, a single year. Sara was not quite sure what to do, and Janis whispered from behind her.
“They must see your blood. You must accept their honour.”
Sara stood, legs apart, looking down on the still prostrate men, who were now looking up at her, though not meeting her eyes. She threw back her hair, or tried to, forgetting it was cut short, and ostentatiously unsheathed Lady Strike. The Spakka all breathed in deeply, and curved their necks, proffering their heads for her to take.
Lady Strike whirled high into the air, gleaming and catching the evening sun’s rays, sending flashes and shadows round the silent deck. She whipped down fast, and there was a long streak of scarlet on Sara’s left forearm.
“I accept your honour,” she cried in a ringing voice, “and bind you to me and to this ship, the Queen Rose, with blood, steel and wood.” She dripped blood onto the deck, and rubbed it in with her bare feet. She allowed the blood to drip down the blade, which she held to the wound, then strode amongst them, flicking blood over them. “I bind thee to me; your honour is tied to my blood. I will protect you, I will honour you, I will kill you. You are mine, mine for the term, and will do as I command.” She repeated these words as she strode through them, flicking blood in their faces with Lady Strike.
The men were no longer looking at her. They were trembling, shaking when her blood touched them as if scalded, and quickly licking it from skin, cloth and deck. Janis was no longer behind her, but with the men. A loud groan built up from the men, coming to a crescendo and breaking into words.
“We are yours, Mistress. Command us! We are your children, our lives are yours to take.”
“Enough!” She cried. “There is work to do. Stand up. That man,” she pointed to where he emerged from the infirmary to watch, “is Lieutenant Mactravis. He will instruct you until I wish to see you again. He will see to your instruction in Harrheinian. Janis! Clean Lady Strike and bring her back to me, then report to the Lieutenant.” She turned and walked to the poop ladder, inwardly trembling in reaction, but feeling triumphant at the same time. As she walked, she looked at Mactravis who was smiling.
“They will take your orders now, Mactravis. They are expecting to be trained as elite Harrhein soldiers and taught our language.”
“No problem, ah, Sara. I remember you now, from your mercenary stint on the frontier.” His eyes twinkled with pleasure. Sara was not feeling guilty anymore. Instead, there was a huge rush of feeling, of pleasure and satisfaction. Adulation is so addictive.
Up on the poop deck, a number of people followed this ceremony. All the officers were watching, joined by the Bosun, Walters and Perryn. Walters was excited. “Oh, this is wonderful! Such a barbaric ceremony! Now, Perryn, make sure you sketch what is happening. I will pen a description to go with it. I don’t think anyone has ever seen a Spakka allegiance ceremony before. Look at that monster of a man - Stiphleek he called himself - he’s crying while he licks the blood off his arm. You can see how much it means to him.” His voice was a whisper that did not carry far. Perryn was busy sketching.
Suzanne whispered in the Captain’s ear, loud enough for those nearby to hear. “I think she may have earned a promotion, sir.”
“I concur,” said Brian. “I’ve never heard of a Spakka bothering to learn another language, even as a long term prisoner. Nobody else can talk to them.”
“Yes,” said the Captain, ruminatively. “I think we shall make her a Midshipman, rather than a Boatswain’s Mate.” He grinned evilly at Brian. “Then you can have the welcome task of teaching her navigation.”
Pat came down from the galley, his fingers treated but he had refused a bandage. He made his way to the group of soldiers settling down to clean their kit. Most of them had been in the galley with him, the soldiers having a wound or three though none serious. Little was the exception, he was happily telling the others how slow and clumsy they were as he oiled his armour with the instinctive care of a veteran. He looked up at the boy approaching.
“Good shooting, laddie. You want to get some mail, though, as they are going to stick you soon, the way you stand out in the open. We’ve got spare. You stick with us, laddie, you’re a soldier, not a sailor.”
The tallest soldier stood up and stepped forwards, taking Pat’s hand and looking at it. Pat tried to pull it back and started to flame up again, but relaxed at his silence. The soldier examined the wounds closely, sniffed at the treatment and frowned.
“What is it?”
Pat shrugged. “Some plant from the Port that I don’t know.”
“When you wash it off tomorrow, if it hasn’t a good start to healing, bring to me. I have woundwort.”
“Thanks,” stammered Pat. “That’s kind.”
“May I see your arrows?” He took a shaft form Pat. “Elven,” he said, and looked at the shaft, especially the seven full inches of hardened steel making up the bodkin tip. “How much carbon?”
“One and a half. Got to keep sulphur out.”
“Sure.” He smelt the wood.
Pat spoke in a strange, lilting language. “You have a look and feel of the people. I cherish the chance to see you shoot.”
The tall man looked at him solemnly and replied in the same language. “My father. How do you speak the language of the North?”
Pat grinned. “Fighting and trading! One of my tutors was an elf, a farstrider.”
“If you two bloody elves have quite finished,” Sergeant Russell glared at them, “we only speak languages everyone can speak in this army!”
“Yeah” said Little, “but it’s only Husky who can’t speak Elvish and he’s thick as pigshit.”
“Enough,” said the sergeant wearily before Husk could respond. “OK lads, so get the tension off the bows and oil them up. This salt air will kill them as quick as a wink. Inspection in half an hour.”
There were the usual groans from the soldiers, but they set to straight away, taking great care of the weapons. Pat sat down beside the tall man and started cleaning his bow and putting the string away, while they murmured together in Elvish.
“You heard my orders. Free the slaves and take everything on the main ship. I want everything done within thirty minutes, then draw up in ranks on the main deck and introduce yourselves to me.”
Sara hesitated a moment, wanting to sheath her blade before climbing back, but reluctant to sheath it without cleaning it. A Spakka warrior, really a boy, knelt at her feet, head bowed and hands up.
“I beg the honour of cleaning the blade, Mistress. It has done great service this day and is a Noble weapon even though so small.” His voice was hushed and awed, breaking slightly and she saw his sparse beard, guessing he was even younger. She dropped it into his hands and swarmed up the rope back onto the ship.
Strachan was forming the soldiers up into a party to bring up the loot from the longship, while Little was tending to Mactavish. Russell was trying to get the Bosun to tell him if she wanted the wood from the longships, while she still expected an attack.
“Sara,” cried an irritated Sergeant Russell, “go and have a word with the Captain, see if he wants to haul those longships on board or have us chop them away. Good job, by the way.”
Sara smiled, threw him a snappy, regulation and totally un-mercenary salute, and climbed up the ladder to the poop deck.
“Both longships and all survivors surrendered, sir,” she snapped briskly, “the slaves are being released and the vessels stripped. Do you want the wood or indeed the entire longships pulled aboard? I gave instructions for the slaves and warriors to muster on the deck in half an hour so you can count them up and allocate them to quarters.”
“Allocate them to quarters?” The Captain spluttered. “Damn it, I’ll rescue the slaves, but we’ll set adrift the survivors in one of the longships. I don’t want the bloody things.”
“Oh, I am so sorry sir,” said Sara contritely, wondering how to get out of this. “I took their oath to stop them fighting. Spakka don’t surrender, but they will change sides if their Noble gives them away. I got to him before he died, to stop us killing them all.”
“Before he died?” Brian interjected. “You rammed your sword through his skull.”
“Spakka honour, sir. It is their cult of a warrior. We learn all about it on the frontier.”
“Funny how a mercenary would know that,” said the Captain, suspiciously. “Such a young one, too. Never mind. So we have a bunch more crewmen. Brian, I want an injury and a damage report as fast as you can, and you and the Bosun can decide what to do with those damn longships. Sara, you took an oath from these warriors.”
She nodded, smiling guardedly.
“So they are loyal to you. What about to me, and the ship?”
Sara opened her mouth to reply and stopped, mouth agape. Snapping it shut, she started. “I am so sorry, sir, I wasn’t thinking. I assumed they would be taking oath to you and the ship, but I don’t know. Honour is very important to them, but I don’t know how it works when a subordinate takes them over on behalf of another officer. I’ll ask Mactravis, he’ll know.”
“Do that,” Captain Larroche dismissed her, and she went, chagrined. It was dawning on her she had not exactly been acting in character, but she was still high on adrenaline.
Lieutenant Mactravis had his armour off and was in the galley where Perryn treated his bruised skull, along with several other sailors with various gashes, bruises, broken bones and a highly embarrassed Pat who was trying to escape. Nils was unconscious on a pallet in the corner, Else tending him, with his shoulders wrapped in bandages. Two bodies lay wrapped in canvas on the floor, and one sailor lay unconscious with the stump of his arm raised in the air, smelling of the hot tar with which Walters sealed the raw wound
“What happened to you?” Sara asked Pat, where Terri and Rat had him cornered, waiting his turn.
“It’s nothing,” he mumbled, hanging his head and not looking at her, going bright red. Sara was immediately fascinated
“It’s his fingers,” said Terri, importantly.
“Silly bastard kept firing, ripped his skin off,” said Rat, grinning.
“Often happens when you’re out of practice,” Pat mumbled, trying to leave. “I’ll be fine.”
“Archer!” snapped Lieutenant Mactravis from across the room in a very irritated tone. “You will wait and be examined by the priest. Is that clear?”
“Yessir,” mumbled Pat, looking at his fingers.
“Look at me when I give you an order, boy!” Mactravis’ tone had gone very cold. “A soldier’s first job is to ensure he is ready to fight at peak condition. We might have another load of longships in half an hour, and you have a better chance of being ready with the priest.”
Pat started and looked into Mactravis’ level eyes. “Yes Sir. Sorry Sir.” He made an attempt at a salute that made Sara bite her lip to keep herself from laughing. Mactravis returned to Perryn who was inspecting his eyes and Sara whispered in Pat’s ear.
“He’s treating you like one of his own men. Big compliment.” She pinched his arm affectionately, not noticing Terri’s glare, and went off to Mactravis.
“Sir, Captain’s compliments, we need some information about the Spakka,” she saluted, unconsciously giving a perfect Rangers salute.
“Well, tell him what you know, damn it,” he answered with a growl, glaring at Perryn who was manipulating his skull. “That hurts, damn you!”
“Sorry,” said Perryn, clearly not.
“I don’t know, is the trouble, sir,” Sara continued doggedly. “The warriors I picked up, do I just hand them over to the Captain? What do I tell them?”
Mactravis looked at her. “Well Miss Mercenary who just happens to speak Spakka, why don’t you ask the Spakka?”
Sara flushed. “If you want, sir, but I thought you would know and it might be better to check with you first. I shall speak with them.” She turned to go.
“Wait,” he said, grabbing her arm, feeling the muscle. “What mercenary company were you with, that knows about parasols and can even form a decent wall? I’ve never seen a woman mercenary under thirty and you’re, what? Seventeen?”
“Ah,” said Sara, thinking furiously and cursing herself. “Well, I was with a few, since I was a kid. Mum was a merc, trained me up. Was with Constantine’s last.”
“No you weren’t. I know Constantine’s officers, you weren’t one of them and he doesn’t have any under 30.”
“I wasn’t an officer, sir.”
“Then why were you giving commands to my men, and to me, damn it, and we obeyed you? How do you know the Battle Song? Why do you take an officer’s position in a wall as if trained to it? Why do you speak Spakka and know more of their customs and rituals than I do?” Suspicion was glinting in his eyes, anger lurking behind it. “There’s only been one girl on the frontier,” he began and his eyes flared wide with shock and he fell silent, mouth still open.
The blood rushed to Sara’s face and she pulled her arm free of his weakened grip. “I’ll speak with the Spakka now, sir.” She fled the room, hearing a sudden bark of laughter from the Lieutenant, conscious of all the eyes staring at her curiously.
Outside the longship, she pressed her shoulders to the door, hearing the questions flying at the Lieutenant and was relieved as he ignored them all. She felt hot tears behind her lids, and repeated her silent mantra from her childhood. “A Starr Princess does not cry!”
The emotion ebbed, she smiled grimly, took control of herself and went to look for the Spakka.
As she appeared on the main deck, the Spakka were bringing up the last of the spoils from the longships. The Bosun was assessing the ex-slaves, and she could see lots of tears. Presumably, many were Harrhein. The boy was looking round, holding her sword and he saw her first, striding over proudly, going down on one knee and proffering the sword.
She took it from him and inspected it minutely. As well as cleaning it, he had greased it and sharpened it, removing a tiny nick that had bothered her.
“I did not tell you to sharpen her.”
The boy smacked down onto the floor, prostrate at her feet. He grabbed her left foot and lifted it up, putting it on his head. Not expecting this, she nearly fell over and just kept her balance.
“Mistress, yours is a sword of power, a famous weapon, such must always be tended. I feared you would kill me if I did not tend it correctly. Please, Mistress, may I know the name of your sword?”
“She is Lady Strike. Now, I need information. Can you give it to me or do I need to ask an older warrior?” She placed the rapier in the sheath on her belt and took her foot off his head.
“Mistress, I will answer if it is within my knowledge. I doubt the others will know more than I.” He grabbed her foot and put it back on his head.
“Why not? You are but a youth?”
“I am Noble born, Mistress. Noble Hilario was my father.”
Sara was shocked, and blinked several times, wondering what to say. She took her foot off. The youth replaced it hurriedly, hanging on more firmly now and spoke again.
“Mistress, as a dutiful son, I wish to express the thanks of my House for the honour you gave my father. It is rare for us to meet honour in battle and few of our people gain the honour of a true death as you gave my father. I will be your sword carrier for five years and a day, the full term, in gratitude, before returning to my house to sing your praises.”
Sara was alarmed. “Five years? Will all the men wish to serve the same term?”
“No Mistress. Most will, but some have wives and children and will return to them after the first year.”
“I am not Spakka, and I do not know your customs. I honour everyone where I can. You must help me to understand. Will you do that?”
“Yes Mistress.”
“”What is your name?”
“Janis, Mistress, Janis Cederroth.”
“Well, Janis, I am a serving officer on this ship, the Queen Rose.” She hoped the Captain would forgive her promotion. “Does your honour go to me or my superiors?”
“Superiors, Mistress?” In his surprise, Janis released her foot and she could stand properly. “Are you not the Princess?”
“What do you know of the Princess?”
“We were told you would be on the Great Ship, it was why we put such an effort into trying to capture it. A message was sent from our spies. Noble Hilario asked especially for the boarding honour as you honoured his friend on the frontier.”
Sara sighed. Did everyone know who she was? “Right, well tell your men that although I am the Princess, I am in disguise and serving on this ship. Nobody is to refer to me as Princess or Asmara. I am Sara, just Sara.”
Janis digested this for a moment. Sara noticed that most of the Spakka were listening in with great interest. “We will call you Mistress, then,” he said with great finality, and the listening Spakka all murmured in agreement. Sara ground her teeth.
“Very well. On the ship you will train with the Harrhein soldiers and report to their commander. The Captain of the ship is Larroche. You will obey him and his officers.”
The Spakka murmured again, definitely not in agreement.
“No,” said Janis, “you have our honour. We obey you and only you.”
“I have other duties. I cannot nursemaid you all the time,” she sneered in perfect Spakka style, as light dawned and she realised how to talk to them. “You will train under Lieutenant Mactravis. I will check your training. I expect you to become proficient. You will also learn Harrhein language and customs. If required to sail the ship, you will do so and follow orders given by ships officers. When I decide to act as Princess, you will form part of my honour guard IF you measure up. Fail me and you will feed sharks.”
This was clearly correct as the entire contingent threw themselves to the floor and snaked over to her. The first reached her, grasped her foot and placed it on his head.
“I am Andreas Esbech. My honour is yours, Mistress, for the full five years.” A huge bearded warrior, missing an eye in a long and livid scar. She nodded and the procession began, while crewmembers came out to watch. Sara noted that they were all saying five years, and it was not till they came to the last few, older men, that they started to say, apologetically, a single year. Sara was not quite sure what to do, and Janis whispered from behind her.
“They must see your blood. You must accept their honour.”
Sara stood, legs apart, looking down on the still prostrate men, who were now looking up at her, though not meeting her eyes. She threw back her hair, or tried to, forgetting it was cut short, and ostentatiously unsheathed Lady Strike. The Spakka all breathed in deeply, and curved their necks, proffering their heads for her to take.
Lady Strike whirled high into the air, gleaming and catching the evening sun’s rays, sending flashes and shadows round the silent deck. She whipped down fast, and there was a long streak of scarlet on Sara’s left forearm.
“I accept your honour,” she cried in a ringing voice, “and bind you to me and to this ship, the Queen Rose, with blood, steel and wood.” She dripped blood onto the deck, and rubbed it in with her bare feet. She allowed the blood to drip down the blade, which she held to the wound, then strode amongst them, flicking blood over them. “I bind thee to me; your honour is tied to my blood. I will protect you, I will honour you, I will kill you. You are mine, mine for the term, and will do as I command.” She repeated these words as she strode through them, flicking blood in their faces with Lady Strike.
The men were no longer looking at her. They were trembling, shaking when her blood touched them as if scalded, and quickly licking it from skin, cloth and deck. Janis was no longer behind her, but with the men. A loud groan built up from the men, coming to a crescendo and breaking into words.
“We are yours, Mistress. Command us! We are your children, our lives are yours to take.”
“Enough!” She cried. “There is work to do. Stand up. That man,” she pointed to where he emerged from the infirmary to watch, “is Lieutenant Mactravis. He will instruct you until I wish to see you again. He will see to your instruction in Harrheinian. Janis! Clean Lady Strike and bring her back to me, then report to the Lieutenant.” She turned and walked to the poop ladder, inwardly trembling in reaction, but feeling triumphant at the same time. As she walked, she looked at Mactravis who was smiling.
“They will take your orders now, Mactravis. They are expecting to be trained as elite Harrhein soldiers and taught our language.”
“No problem, ah, Sara. I remember you now, from your mercenary stint on the frontier.” His eyes twinkled with pleasure. Sara was not feeling guilty anymore. Instead, there was a huge rush of feeling, of pleasure and satisfaction. Adulation is so addictive.
Up on the poop deck, a number of people followed this ceremony. All the officers were watching, joined by the Bosun, Walters and Perryn. Walters was excited. “Oh, this is wonderful! Such a barbaric ceremony! Now, Perryn, make sure you sketch what is happening. I will pen a description to go with it. I don’t think anyone has ever seen a Spakka allegiance ceremony before. Look at that monster of a man - Stiphleek he called himself - he’s crying while he licks the blood off his arm. You can see how much it means to him.” His voice was a whisper that did not carry far. Perryn was busy sketching.
Suzanne whispered in the Captain’s ear, loud enough for those nearby to hear. “I think she may have earned a promotion, sir.”
“I concur,” said Brian. “I’ve never heard of a Spakka bothering to learn another language, even as a long term prisoner. Nobody else can talk to them.”
“Yes,” said the Captain, ruminatively. “I think we shall make her a Midshipman, rather than a Boatswain’s Mate.” He grinned evilly at Brian. “Then you can have the welcome task of teaching her navigation.”
Pat came down from the galley, his fingers treated but he had refused a bandage. He made his way to the group of soldiers settling down to clean their kit. Most of them had been in the galley with him, the soldiers having a wound or three though none serious. Little was the exception, he was happily telling the others how slow and clumsy they were as he oiled his armour with the instinctive care of a veteran. He looked up at the boy approaching.
“Good shooting, laddie. You want to get some mail, though, as they are going to stick you soon, the way you stand out in the open. We’ve got spare. You stick with us, laddie, you’re a soldier, not a sailor.”
The tallest soldier stood up and stepped forwards, taking Pat’s hand and looking at it. Pat tried to pull it back and started to flame up again, but relaxed at his silence. The soldier examined the wounds closely, sniffed at the treatment and frowned.
“What is it?”
Pat shrugged. “Some plant from the Port that I don’t know.”
“When you wash it off tomorrow, if it hasn’t a good start to healing, bring to me. I have woundwort.”
“Thanks,” stammered Pat. “That’s kind.”
“May I see your arrows?” He took a shaft form Pat. “Elven,” he said, and looked at the shaft, especially the seven full inches of hardened steel making up the bodkin tip. “How much carbon?”
“One and a half. Got to keep sulphur out.”
“Sure.” He smelt the wood.
Pat spoke in a strange, lilting language. “You have a look and feel of the people. I cherish the chance to see you shoot.”
The tall man looked at him solemnly and replied in the same language. “My father. How do you speak the language of the North?”
Pat grinned. “Fighting and trading! One of my tutors was an elf, a farstrider.”
“If you two bloody elves have quite finished,” Sergeant Russell glared at them, “we only speak languages everyone can speak in this army!”
“Yeah” said Little, “but it’s only Husky who can’t speak Elvish and he’s thick as pigshit.”
“Enough,” said the sergeant wearily before Husk could respond. “OK lads, so get the tension off the bows and oil them up. This salt air will kill them as quick as a wink. Inspection in half an hour.”
There were the usual groans from the soldiers, but they set to straight away, taking great care of the weapons. Pat sat down beside the tall man and started cleaning his bow and putting the string away, while they murmured together in Elvish.
