Free Perilous Seas by Dave Duncan Page A

and untied his bonds. He was so
numb that he could not clasp the beaker he was offered, so it was held to his
lips by a fleece-bearded blond giant who looked no older than himself, and who
so much resembled Rap’s old friend Kratharkran that at first he thought
he was hallucinating. But Kratharkran must be safely home in Krasnegar, earning
an honest living; this young jotunn was a killer, and his attitude to the foul
and stinking captive was one of understandable dislike.
    Fortunately
there was still no shortage of fresh air, although the storm was waning. The
sky had brightened, and Rap could have seen with his eyes almost as well now as
he could without them, except that both his eyes were swollen mostly shut,
thanks to Darad’s little chats. The waves had not subsided, though, and
might not do so for days. Fresh air and rain, and cold. He was almost too weak
to shiver.
    “Thane
wants you,” said the young colossus, with the same unexpectedly
high-pitched voice as Kratharkran. “Can you walk?”
    Rap
shook his head, and even that was an effort. The water had added nausea to his
pains; he should have drunk more slowly. Apparently he was not going to be fed
yet, but he didn’t care overmuch at the moment.
    The
sailor rose, took hold of Rap’s feet, and headed aft, dragging him along
the narrow central gangway between the rowers’ benches. Unfortunately the
oars were stored there when not in use, and the narrow walk space remaining was
wide enough for a boot, but not a man’s shoulders. He bounced on blades
and counterweights. The first half of the journey was downhill, the second half
up, as Blood Wave continued her trek over the graygreen ranges of the Summer
Seas. Arriving at the stern, the gangling raider dropped Rap’s feet,
hauled him up by the shoulders, and adjusted him so he was half kneeling, half
sitting on the planks.
    “Thanks,
Vurjuk,” Kalkor said. “Be sure and wash your hands now.”
    “Aye,
sir!” The young raider grinned and stalked away, swaying in easy balance
as the ship tilted its bow to the sky again.
    Rap
could not even control his whirling, reeling mind, let alone his despicably
useless body. He slumped on the planks before the thane’s bare feet like
a dog, or a heap of refuse. He wanted to stand up like a man, and his
contemptible muscles refused to obey his commands. They would do nothing but
shiver. His hands were starting to throb painfully.
    Lording
above him on his throne, Kalkor reached out one horny foot and nudged Rap’s
head up, so he could study the ruins.
    “Darad?”
    “Aye,
sir. “
    “It’s
enough to spoil a man’s lunch.” Kalkor pushed the offending face
down again, still using his foot.
    The
thane’s private kennel was crammed with sacks and bales, which Rap had
long since inspected and judged to contain the choicest loot. The overhead deck
was too low for a man of any of the large races to stand upright; indeed it had
not even been high enough for Thane Kalkor’s chair.
    Once
that chair must have belonged to a king, or perhaps a bishop. It was big and
intricately carved, inset with jewels and enamels and filigree of gold. It was
padded in fine scarlet velvet. But the tall back had been shortened with an ax
to fit under the low headroom, and now half the jewels were gone and the velvet
was stained and rotted by salt water. Even the legs were splintered where the
chair had been spiked to the deck to stop it sliding around.
    Now
the throne belonged to a half-naked jotunn pirate, who was lounging back in it
and regarding with wry amusement the wretched near-corpse that had just been
dumped at his feet. He was exactly as Rap had seen him in the magic casement:
big and young, powerful in every way imaginable. His hair was the color of
white gold, hanging heavily like plate; his eyebrows were white seagulls’
wings of irony on his bronzed face, a face of hard, angular beauty and diabolic
cruelty. Unlike the rest of the men aboard, he wore no tattoos.
    His
eyes