Free 01 - The Burning Shore by Robert Ear - (ebook by Undead)

little amiss. Bobbing this way
and that, the ships seemed happy enough amongst the thrashing of the sea. They
moved as effortlessly as motes of dust on a summer’s breeze, now racing up to
new heights on heaving swells, now plunging suddenly down into the green shadowy
depths below. It seemed all the same to the little flotilla, even when their
formation was broken and they were scattered across the ocean’s boiling surface
like matchsticks in a millrace.
    But amongst the ships’ passengers, the voyage was rapidly collapsing into a
nightmare. The mocking whine of the wind was interspersed with the blunt impact
of the sea against fragile walls. The terrifying groan of tortured timbers split
the air, blending with the cries of men sure their world was about to end.
    Only the sailors remained silent. Their faces grim and white beneath a sheen
of salt spray they worked swiftly but calmly, bound by a discipline forged from
fear and confidence in equal measure. Swinging around their ropes and hanging
from winch handles like acrobats they dragged the sails down, fighting the
howling wind for possession of the cloth.
    Their captain watched them, silent for the most part. His men knew what they
were doing. He wouldn’t burden them with unnecessary orders.
    Only when danger loomed ahead did he step in. Once a loose boom, snapping
free of its restraining cord, brought him racing down to the stern, a hastily
assembled gang of men at his heels.
    Later a coil of rope rolled across the deck, the tangled hemp as dangerous as
a snare on the pitching ship. He and the first mate battled their way down to
clear it away, and then he worked his way up to the stern to find out why the
foresail still remained unfurled.
    Above him the clouds ripened into a heavy black mass and then, suddenly,
burst apart into a torrent of rain.
    An hour later the storm proper began.
     
    Lorenzo sat and shivered. He cursed, low and loud, muttering the profanities
with the sort of quiet intensity that other men reserve for prayer. The fact that he was kneeling on the floor, leaning over a bucket as
other, more spiritual men, might lean over a reliquary, just added to the
illusion.
    Every now and again he’d crawl to his feet, being sure to keep at least one
handhold clamped onto the interior of the pitching cabin, and would look down on
Florin. In the days, or perhaps weeks, since the storm had begun his master had
sunk into a deep, burning fever.
    “Gods rot the bollocks off that cursed surgeon,” Lorenzo repeated for the
hundredth time as he rolled Florin onto his side and checked the brown stained
mass of his bandages. Reluctantly he peeled them back, revealing the jagged rail
of the poorly stitched wound that followed the bumps of his spine.
    It was weeping again: a thick yellow liquid seeped out from between the
stitches.
    According to the surgeon that was a good thing. Perhaps that was why he’d
stayed locked in his own quarters since the storm had begun.
    “Worthless scum,” Lorenzo decided as he lent to feel Florin’s brow. The
burning flesh beneath his hand was worryingly dry, and Lorenzo knew that it was
time to try and get some more water into him.
    “What a gods forsaken place,” he grumbled as a sudden, gut-wrenching yaw sent
his knuckles cracking painfully against the wall and his boot heels squeaking
across the planking. He waited until the ship had righted herself before
crawling across the tiny room to recover the water skin.
    It felt worryingly slack, almost empty. Never the less Lorenzo unhooked it
and took it back to Florin.
    “Here you go, boss,” he said, pinching Florin’s stubbled chin and shaking his
head back and forth. The only response was a groan of complaint, but that was
good enough for Lorenzo.
    Carefully, bracing his knees beneath the bunk, he lifted his master’s head
and put the spout to his lips.
    “Drink up,” he demanded, lifting the flask higher so that the last swig of
their water