Chapter 1: Call of the Sea

Waking up covered in blood weren't no good way to wake up, but piss on 'em. The fella had nearly drowned him and he was damn lucky that Rory was a godly lad or he'd still be floatin' in the water. Hells, he might even be food for the fish by now. It'd have to be a damn big fish, and hungry because he was the biggest fella he'd ever seen! Rory couldn't believe he even fit through the window, but as big as he was, he probably could have ran right through the wall like one of them pissed off bulls.

Weren't no way he was a rich fella. He was as messy and patched up as those poor midden heap workers in Heart Harbor, and every bit as smelly. Maybe he was just one of them fellas with a shit job, trying to put a bit of meat on his table with some god's honest stealin'. But folks like that couldn't run if they were shot out of one of those cannons in the harbor. Every one of them was as skinny as a rope, and slow as a snail. Whoever he was, weren't no way he was from Heart Harbor or any other city in Tril.

Rory never saw a man that looked like him, rich or poor. He had the darkest hair and skin he'd ever seen, like the color of cocoa. Must've been one of those fellas from the southern islands. Big folks they were, and meaner than a mate on a prison hulk. Rory hoped to hell he wouldn't wake up while they drug his mountain of an ass onto the beach. He'd snap both of them like twigs even if his own head were already cracked and bleedin'.

Damn he was heavy as an achor! They could have left him closer to the sea, but it wouldn't do no good for the waves to sweep him away. He'd end up drownin', and Rory and Barney would both be in crossed with the Sea Mother.

Two boys from the Hawkers couldn't do with that kind of business, not when half their dealin's were in a boat. There weren't no point to stealin' to buy their new boat and leave the shit heap of Tril. Not if they would get swallowed up by the waves because they pissed off the Sea Mother.

Cold waves lapped onto the wet sand as they drug the fella along. Rory weren't too happy about soaking the bottoms of his trousers again. Hell, he'd just finished dryin' up and shiverin' and there he was cold and wet again.

Piss on this fella!

At least the sun warmed the sky in the east. Before long, dawn would break and the damn cold would fook off back across the waves.

"Fookin' wicked waves he's heavier than a horse!" Barney grunted and moaned as he tugged on the fella's wrist.

Rory didn't have enough air to say anything. It was all he could do to just pull the fella through the sand. Barney was the stronger of them, and probably did most of the pullin' himself. There weren't enough meat on Rory's bones to do this kind of work, but it weren't fair to have Barney do all of it alone. He dug his feet into the cold sand and tugged like he were haulin' the boat up a cliff. His heart hammered against his ribs as he heaved. It was a wonder the fella's arms didn't tear off from all the pullin'. Hell, they may as well have been draggin' a boulder.

"Sun's coomin up, Rory. We can leave him 'ere. The fookers from the village can deal with him."

Barney was right. Weren't no good to be seen draggin' a fella on the beach. Some of them fishers in the village might of thought they were up to no good, and damn if they weren't. The local constables would be on them quicker than flies on shit if they raised the alarm. As good as Rory was at makin' codswallop, there weren't no explainin' a fella with a cracked head, and even less explainin' a pocket with jewlery and baubles. They'd be tossed in a one of the jails in Heart Harbor with all the ruffians and piss poor thieves. That weren't no place for a fella like Rory, his scrawny ass would be mincemeat if he couldn't run away, and there weren't no runnin' in jail.

Barney dropped the fella's wrist and it plopped in the sand as limp as a dead eel. Rory answered and did the same, nearly falling on his ass as a tired sigh left him. Aches bit his arms and legs as a knocking throb thumped in his tired limbs.

Barney gasped a thirsty breath. "C'mon, Rory, let's get the fook out of 'ere while it's still a wee dark."

"I needs a minute to catch my breath, Barney. I ain't no pack mule." Rory rubbed the sting and burn from his legs and arms, as the burning in his lungs cooled.

Barney grumbled and raked his fingers through his sweaty, red hair. "I'll be waitin' in the boat," a sting of irritation spiced his voice.

The snarl from the surf rolled and growled up the beach with each wave. The cold water soothed the aches a bit and it weren't long before Rory found enough energy to drag his ass back to the dinghy. Barney weren't makin' for the boat though. He stood there, twisting his freckled face as he squinted through the growing light of a rising sun. His hands propped on his hips like he were about to scold a youngin' as he glared up the gentle slope of the beach through the dark.

"Rory, we's got trouble."

Rory turned 'round. He squinted hard, focusing through the warming light to the shadows of huts on the ridge. Fishin' village was all it was, but they all had a lawman. He weren't nowhere in sight. Nothin' was there other than dark buildings. Everyone was still sleepin'.

"Ain't nothin' there, Barney."

Lumbering shadows spotted the open lanes between huts. Here and there, they went from one house to another, haulin' whatever goods they could carry.

Too many fookin bandits in Tril.

Rory spat a hushed curse at them, but the muffled struggles of folks painted a darker picture. They weren't no bandits.

"Wicked waves, Rory, they're Pharang slavers!" Barney waved toward their boat as he crouched low.

The lump of a man lay in the sand at Rory's feet like a pile of flotsam.

Can't leave him to be taken by slavers.

It weren't right. Even if he tried to drown him, it weren't right. Rory heard all sorts of tales of folks that had escaped slavery. Rory would rather die than be taken by a slaver, and he reckoned this fella would too.

"We can't leave him, Barney, it ain't right." Rory whispered as he hunkered himself and crept to grab one of the fella's ankles.

"For fook's sake, Rory, he tried to fookin drown you! That weren't right neither."

"Please, Barney. It ain't right, the Sea Mother ain't gonna forgive us if we leave him for slavers."

"Fook me, Rory, help me drag him then!" Barney gripped the other ankle in both hands and heaved.

Rory hauled the fella like he was outrunnin' a hurricane. The sting and burn thumped at his arms and legs but it weren't no time to be tired. Each step dug into the wet sand, sinking and slipping, and Rory nearly fell on his ass more than once. The snarl of waves hissed louder and louder as they trudged through the sand. Rory's lungs ached as sweat rolled and tickled his face, down his shirt, soakin' him all the way through again. All the while, he kept his eyes on the ridge.

Rotten luck for those folks.

If they could get back to The Hearth safely, Rory knew he could run to Brightharbor and raise the alarm. Folks weren't likely to listen to one of the Hawker's boys, but the word slaver carried a bit of weight. The law would bring out the horses and guns, and they might be able to save the fookers in the village. But they had to get to The Hearth first.

Morning crept on the horizon, brighter and brighter as they drew closer to the boat. The cold dark gave way to a hungry morning glow. The huts on the ridge weren't shadows no more, and neither were the slavers. There weren't many of them, maybe a half dozen, but that was more than either of them could handle.

They poured the fella into the boat, and he rolled like a ball of dough, thumping and bumping as his boots crashed against the old planks. His wet, sandy jacket slapped against his dark skin as he settled into a new lumpy shape. Barney gripped the bow of the dinghy, digging his feet into the sand as he braced for a hard push. Rory, readied the oars. He propped them on the bench before joining his half-brother at the bow, and readying to heave the boat back out into the surf.

"Oi!" A gruff voice shouted from the ridge.

"Fook me," Barney spat as he pushed.

The surf deepened and the boat gave way without reisistance. Soft thuds and clanking metal rattled down the slope of the beach toward them, but they had made it to the water. The boys jumped into the boat from either side. Rory settled into the may of the bow, plopping his ass onto the wet pile of rags and stink that lay unconscious. It were an impressive thing that the fella was still not awake, Barney must've given him a hell of a crackin'.

Rory smiled at the slavers on the beach, offering them a gentle nod of his head and a wave. It weren't a wise thing to cross with slavers, but he was in a boat and they were on the shore. There weren't no way that they could do nothin' other than curse and stare. He stood off the stinking fella and turned 'round. He fiddled with his belt buckle for a moment before offering them a splendid view of his ass. Barney rowed hard against the waves, but he gave a toothy grin at the spectacle.

"Siddown before you go over, you looney!"

Rory nodded, returning a quick grin, before hiking up his trousers. A thundering crack boomed across the snarling waves, shocking him to a hunkered crouch at the bow. His face nearly pressed into the wet stink of the mountain that lay in the boat as he doubled over. The fella's sour and gritty aroma rattled Rory's gut, and he choked back a breath filled sick with shit, sweat, and mildew. Damn he was smelly as the pure finders!

"Fookin hell, Rory, they're shootin' at us!"

Rory raised his gaze to the stern bench, glad to be a few centimeters further from the stink. Barney looked down at his forearm. A meaty slice dug through his skin below his elbow, raining a steady stream of blood into the sea, but he kept rowin'. It were a bleeder, but it weren't nothin' serious.

Thank the Sea Mother.

Another crack, and another. A small volley of pistol shots shattered the roaring sounds of the waves, echoing across the sea to the horizon. Shots whizzed close, but fell short of the bow, crashing into the water. Icy droplets rained on the boat, and the cold water stung Rory's skin. Wet again.

The big fella stirred, likely from the racket, and he let out a raucous groan.

A horn blew from the shore in short blasts, howling over the din of the ocean. A final curse at the boys that escaped. Rory kept his eyes on the fella at his feet. Still knocked out he was, but the racket had roused him a bit, and Rory knew it weren't long before he woke up. It weren't a good thing to be stuck in dinghy with a pissed off bear, especially one that tried to drown him.

"Toss me the mooring rope, Barney. We don't need him wakin' and throwin' us overboard."

Barney nodded and let go of an oar. He fetched the coiled line at his feet and tossed it to Rory. Knots weren't something that Rory bothered himself with, but he knew enough to keep the fella restrained. He bent low, working first at the fella's wrists. The gentle rolls of the waves fought his balance as he straddle over the hulking pile. He swayed back and forth as he looped the rope in and out of itself, and giving a good tug he'd completed the knot with a nod of satisfaction. It was a tangle of a thing; spidery and messy but it were an old saying in the seafarer's tongue to the green fellas on a boat:

If you can't tie a knot, tie a lot.

He'd done just that. It was a ball of a knot and bounded around from the small of the fella's wrists up to the middle of his forearms. It wove in and out just as he would have tied to a cleat on a dock. The rest of the rope he'd saved for the fella's ankles. Rory clamped his hands to the starboard rail of the boat. With a great stretch of his right leg, he bounded atop the fella and lost his balance from the rocking surf. He stumbled backward and nearly plopped his ass into Barney's lap. He fell at his feet in front of him with a harsh thud into the cold puddle of seawater that accumulated in the keel of the dinghy.

"Fook sake, Rory, watch it!"

Rory shrugged as he accepted his state of perpetual wetness and wrapped the fella's ankles in and out until he closed the hitch with a final solid tug of the rope. He weren't going nowhere's now. At least not easily.

Barney pushed Rory away, as he centered himself back in the bench and kept rowing. Rory turned ' round in the keel, facing his half-brother, and crossing his legs. He had a better look at the grazing wound on Barney's arm. The bead of blood grew to a gentle river, rolling down his arm to his elbow. It dripped continuously into the water, swirling and twisting before vanishing into the sea's shimmer. It was deeper than he thought. A good bit of meat gouged away and it was a wonder that Barney could even keep up rowing.

"You gonna be alright to keep rowin, Barney?" He pointed at the wound.

Barney looked at his arm and shrugged. "It ain't that bad. Don't even hurt all that much."

Barney was tougher than a tree stump, but Rory knew he were tellin' tales. It hurt more than he said it did. The twisting of his half-brother's face was all the truth he needed.

"Why do we always get the fookin shitty jobs, Rory? I'm tired of gettin' banged up every heist."

Rory was too. They hardly ever had a heist go smoothly. Seemed like somewhere's along the way, somethin' always went wrong. Someone almost always caught Rory in the act, even if the place were supposed to be empty, it were never the case. They'd been lucky so far, but it were only a matter of time before that luck ran out.

"I dunno, Barney. Vayle tells me where to go, and we goes. Ain't no helpin' the bad luck."

"Fookin better be worth it, Rory. I'm tired of stealin' and Vayle keepin' the money."

Rory was too. Vayle paid them, of course, but it weren't nearly what the scores were worth. That's why he started takin' a few extra things. Vayle always told them what he was after, and Rory delivered, but he never said that that was all Rory could steal. His hand wandered into his pocket and he ran his thumb across the ridge of the box he'd taken.

"This is the last time, Barney. I got us a bit extra. We can finally buy that boat with this score."

He pulled out the box and held it up to his half-brother. Thin lines of polished gold accented the surface of dark, smooth wood, glinting in the morning sun like razors of light. It shone brighter than hot fire and the wood fell deeper into dark than a cave. Rory shook it gently and its contents rattled in the box with metallic clinking and clattering. Barney's eyes beamed as he looked at it, offering a sheepish grin.

"What's innit?" Barney asked as his eyes crossed themselves, digging into the beauty of it.

"I dunno. I saw it and grabbed it. It's a pretty thing ain't it? Even the box ought to bring a good price to the right person."

"Well fookin hells, Rory, open it up and see!"

Rory nodded, and nestled his fingernails beneath the box's lid. It opened revealing a looking glass on the underside of the lid and the shimmering of gem-studded rings and jewels. It were the score of a lifetime! Emeralds, rubies, and saphires all sat upon intricate webs of gold and silver, the likes of which he'd never seen even in the richest houses of Heart Harbor.

"Mother be good, Rory, these are fookin amazing!"

Amidst the glimmer and gleam of such remarkable crafted jewelry, a dingy, dull medallion capped a drab and tarnished key. Strange letters marked the outer edge of its circle, bounding around an intricate etching of a ship, and cliff-face. Beneath it, however, it looked like buildings stood under the surface of the water. It was a haunting thing, crying out in the deep like a dream that escapes a person right before they wake.

Rory hadn't noticed, but his hand had already dug into the box's contents, and found the key. His fingers wrapped around it, and white hammered his mind. A flash, bright and blinding, like staring into the sun, struck him like lightning, and he fell backwards into the fella behind him.

Rory.

"Rory are you alright?"

Barney's voice was far away; somewhere out there in the brool of the sea. The waves crashed in his head as though he were at the bottom of the bluffs. They roared and frothed as he felt himself sink into a comfortable, black abyss. Frigid needles pricked him as he sank, down to the murky floor of the sea. Lights glimmered in the distance, here and there they flickered like candles in windows. They dotted the dark water like stars in the night sky. He squinted his eyes, fighting hard to focus in the murky depths. Before him, the dark shapes of towering buildings stood against the horizon of the deep seafloor.

Rory.

"Rory for fook sake snap out of it!"

The lapping water clapped against the side of the dinghy, and the gentle whisper of the surf on the shore hummed in his ears, as the black of his eyes faded away. The warmth of the morning wrapped him like a blanket as he lay there in the cold puddle of the boat. Perfumes of piss and booze wafted into Rory's nose and he gagged as he reeled his head out of the embrace of stench. A pounding throb banged over and over in his fingers which clamped the box like he were holdin' onto the edge of a cliff and about to fall. A fire burned against the palm of his other hand still clutching the key. Its edges gouged into his skin as he worked the urge to loosen his grip. His hand burned like he'd cast it into a fire. He opened his fingers and the key laid, dug into his skin like a brand. He held it over the box and tilted it back in with the other baubles before closing the lid, and shoving it back into his pocket. All the while, a dull thump hammered harder and harder in his palm.

His hand trembled as he brought it back 'round to inspect the burning. The same intricate inscription on the medallion had etched into his skin like a tatoo. The raw flesh around the wound stabbed shocks of pain into his hand like a hot fork.

"Wicked waves, Rory! What the fook is that?"

Rory fought the urge to scream as it lingered lingered in the back of his throat. The hammering pain bashed against the palm of his hand like it were placed on a blacksmith's anvil and pounded over and over again. He lunged to the side of the boat and dunked the burning skin into the sea.

White struck him again. The calls of the ocean depths whirred about in the abyss, echoing across the dark expanse through fissures and plains. A soft song lolled in the water, just out of reach of understanding, like the foreign melodies sang by folks from across the sea.

Rory.

"Dammit, Rory, knock it off!"

Barney thumped the heel of his hand into the side of his head, and the world snapped back again. The pounding thumps in Rory's hand waned to a dull ache, and he plucked his hand from the water, relieved at the soothing sea's grasp on his strange wound. The world spun in circles in his head as he came back to himself.

"I'm alright, Barney. Just squeezed the key too hard, I reckon."

Barney looked up. He was white as a sheet.

It were a lie, but there weren't no reason to alarm Barney. He'd think he was a nutter talkin' of visions and voices, and it weren't no good to worry about it now while they still had the fella to offload on the beach somewheres. The fella that stunk like the piss pots of a hospital. The fella that now towered over him like a tree.

Barney lunged from his bench, over Rory's head, and crashed into the man like he were an arrow. He reared backward, crashing his ass into the keel with Barney stuck on top of him like a wet blanket. The boat rocked like it rode the waves of a squall as the two wrestled about, thumping and bumping against the wood with boots and elbows. He was bound up tighter than an anchor chain in a storm but he put up a hell of a fight. He tossed Barney about like a pillow as he fought to stand but he stayed stuck to him like he were nailed to the fella. The hulking man drove the ball of his tied hands into Barney's chest and raised him up like he were lighter than a feather. He rolled to the side, and Barney spilled over like a bag of sand. He thumped against the rail of the boat, slamming the side of his head with a knock that curled Rory's hairs. Barney slid down the hull of the dinghy, limp and bloody. He was knocked out cold.

A horn howled in the distance from somewheres as the man fought to stand. The world still spun around Rory like a whirlpool, and it was all he could do to push himself away. He drug his ass through the cold water of the keel, pushing backwards with the heels of his boots and his aching hand. The dark man loomed over him like the shadow of a great mountain. He looked down with his black eyes through locks of dark hair that fell from his head like long, dirty ropes. The knot at his ankles had worked loose, and he stood, straddling Rory, with his hands still bound into a ball.

"I swore that I'd drewn ye when I caught ye," he said, smiling a ragged grin through a shroud of dark, dirty beard hairs.

"I fookin kept you from drownin'! We could have left you floatin' in the sea." Rory cried, hopin' that his favor would cool the man's fiery rage.

"Ye bloody should have, boy." The fella brought his bound hands above his head; a hammer ready to strike.

Rory raised his arms and held his hands up in front of him, bracing for the inevitable crushing blow coming to him. He'd hoped that the realization that he was the one that saved him would be enough to calm the rage, but he was wrong. He and Barney would be thrown overboard, asleep and left to feed the fish.

The man's dark eyes fell on the aching wound in Rory's palm and the heatwaves of rage cooled to bitter contempt. His face settled to indifference as his arms lowered. He leaned closer to the wound in Rory's hand as he inspected the etching.

"Piss in the fookin wind." He sighed. "Sea Mudder fargive me."

He bent his knees as he stretched his hands toward Rory.

"Ye awrite, boy?" His black eyes lowered to a warmed caring as he shrunk lower to meet Rory's face.

It didn't make any sense. Rory looked back at the hunkered frame of Barney's bulk laying in the bow of the boat in a small pool of blood. The same fella that was hellbent on murderin' the two boys, now offered a calm and concerned look of worry, as though he'd seen ghosts.

"Fargive me, lad. It weren't known tuh me that ye were a child o' the sea mooder. I thought ye wahr takin' her key for yerself.

A loud, fierce horn howled again much closer than before. It's call shouted over the waves and roared a fiery cry in Rory's ears. The big fella turned 'round at the sound. A sail towered over the waves a kilometer or so to the east. The silhouette burned black against the dull red of the morning sky as it headed toward their boat, closing the distance like a predator running down prey. The long shape and curvature whispered threats as the familiar frame of a Pharang longboat rolled over the distant waves.

The slavers.

"Fookin Mudder be marciful. That be a slaver ship!"

It were the slaver's that he'd heard. The horn was simply a call for reinforcements, and there they were, coming to capture the three of them.

The dark fella spread his hands as far as the ropes would allow, and he offered the taut bindings to Rory.

"Coot me free, lad! I can steer us tuh shore."

Rory weren't much of a rower, especially with the burning wound thumping in his hand. Though it were a curious change in his hearty rage, the cooled request for forgiveness eased Rory's worries as he felt the waves of genuine regret spill from the mountainous man. He fumbled about in his coat pockets until he'd found his folding knife. It opened it with a sharp click, and he sawed through the mooring ropes one strand at a time.

The ship cut through the rolling chop, bearing closer and closer to them as he sliced through the ropes until finally, the last strand snapped away and the fella's hands broke free. The big man eased Rory out of the way and hunkered down into the bench of the dinghy. He clutched the oars and rowed with the strength of an ocean storm. Each stroke was nearly as wide as the boat, and the biting chill of the morning whipped at Rory's face as the vessel built speed in the water. The cold snap of the air slowed the spin of the world as he looked toward the bow. A frothing vee spilled behind the boat as it headed to shore.

He rowed like he'd spent a lifetime at a galley's oars, and that every stroke may well be his last. The dinghy rose and fell over the crests of waves, one after another, like a ball bouncing down the stairs as they came closer to the sandy beaches. The shouts of the Pharang slavers howled over the roaring hum of the waves as the longboat drew ever closer. Rory could make out crewman on board, several in fact, and more than he'd counted on the shore earlier. It weren't common to see slavers in these waters, for they avoided most places near Three-Harbors and its navy. But here they were, a whole host of them, and who knew how many more of them there were?

The thundering concussion of bow chasers pounded the quiet call of the sea about them as great puffs of smoke billowed in front of the longboat. The whizzing howl of cannonballs crashed on the sides of their vessel, throwing icy shards of seawater towering into the air. And splashing hard into them like an avalanche.

"Stop or be destroyed!" A voice boomed across the sea toward them.

"Fook yer mudder!" The man replied, drawing each stroke harder than the last as the ropes of his hair blew in front of his face in the wake of increasing speed.

It weren't long before the hiss of the keel ground against the sandy bottom of the shallows along the beach and the boat slid to a violent stop in the rolling waves on the shore.

Rory bent over his half-brother. He slapped his face and shook him, trying without luck to rouse him from his knocked-out stupor.

"Let me have 'em, lad." The big fella said, walking low across the boat toward the boys.

He scooped Barney's wide frame into his arms and hauled him over his shoulder like he weighed less than a sack of leaves. Rory scanned the ridge of the beach. Bushes and driftwood dotted the sandy expanse, but upon the crest, treetops sprung here and there in the distance.

"Come on!" Rory shouted, as he bounded over the rail of the boat.

The big fella, stood straight and with one wide stride, stepped over the side of the boat behind Rory. The two darted up the slope of the beach toward the ridge. Splashes crashed in the water behind them, and Rory turned to see the host of slavers jumping off the sides of the longboat into the shallow water.

They made their way up the gentle hill and across the short expanse of grassy field before sinking into the dark murk of the dense forest. They crashed through branches and undergrowth, striding over rocks and downed logs, as they fell deeper into the green depths. The cracking of branches and cries of contempt echoed behind them, as Rory led them further into an ever thickening stand of trees that darkened nearly all the warm glow of the morning sun. Down a rolling, leafy crack in the dirt they ran toward a gentle stream that flowed over jagged rocks and further into the hazy murk of the forest.

Rory followed the flow of the familiar stream, slowing his steps to a careful creep as he lowered himself closer to the ground. The large man did the same, bending low with Barney slumped over his shoulder as they continued their push inward. The sounds of pursuit and angered shouts thinned and softened as they gained distance in the trees. It weren't far from the dark mouth of the cave that Rory knew so well. A cave that Barney, him, and all the other orphaned boys of Tril lived. It was the great gate of Hawker's Hearth, and they were almost home.