Steven rolled from the bed and managed to stand, but he dared not pick up the hickory staff for fear of driving Sallax to attack.
Tears began to form in Sallax’s eyes as he closed the door behind him. The rapier’s tip was just a few feet from Steven’s chest.
Steven started, ‘All of Rona needs you, Sallax. There are so few who bring-’
‘I am not Ronan,’ Sallax nearly shouted, then lowered his voice. ‘I am from Praga. Brynne and I are Pragan.’
Mark made an attempt to downplay this revelation. ‘I don’t care if you’re from Ontario. Isn’t Praga under Malagon’s rule as well? Are Pragans not suffering?’ He watched Steven sidle slowly towards the staff, but not pick it up. Smart, Steven, he thought. Don’t piss him off any more than he already is.
‘My parents were kind people.’ Sallax’s voice broke and he fought to control the tremor. ‘They owned a rigging shop on the wharf in Southport. Hawsers, line, cleats, brass quarterdeck bells my father let me polish.’ His gaze drifted to the window and a thin smile graced his lips as he recalled a happier time. ‘They caught the early sun off the water and turned the whole storefront to gold, rippling fluid gold. My mother mended sails; her fingers were callused from Twinmoons pushing and pulling huge needles through tears in the sheets. She always had pots of tecan brewing on the woodstove, but I can’t remember anyone ever paying for a cup. “The first cup of tecan every day should be free,” she would always say, but I never remember anyone paying for tecan at any time of day. They didn’t make much, mind you, but we were always happy and the shop was always filled with people.’
Neither Mark nor Steven had ever heard him say this much, and Mark was about to entreat the big man to put down his rapier when Sallax went on, ‘Brynne played in her crib or on the floor near the woodstove. She could barely stand when they died, and I stole milk for Twinmoons until she was old enough to eat solid food.’
Crying now, he ran a tunic sleeve across his face and it came away slick with mucus and tears. ‘Malagon had just come to power, his father dead only a few Twinmoons, when we began to feel Malakasia’s grip tighten. My parents didn’t mind because all ships – Pragan, Malakasian, even the occasional craft from Rona – they all needed rigging after fighting through the Twinmoon storms on the Ravenian Sea. Business for them was good. I learned a lot, and I was happy. I thought things would be perfect for ever. I was perhaps fifty Twinmoons at the time.’
‘What happened?’ Steven whispered, his eyes still locked on the tip of Sallax’s rapier.
‘People were starving. There were raids, civil unrest, bread lines that became full-scale riots, day after day. You would be surprised what otherwise decent people will do to feed their families.’ His eyes seemed to glaze over and his face paled as he continued in a soft monotone, ‘A raiding fleet came into Southport, probably out of Markon Isle, three of them, heavy ships, several hundred men each. My father had seen them when they were hull-up on the horizon. They flew Pragan colours. He was excited; that meant work for him and my mother that night.’
‘They were Malakasians?’ Steven asked. ‘Flying Pragan colours to allay any suspicion?’
‘No,’ he shook his head slightly, ‘they were Ronan. Searching for food and silver, and girls to work the whorehouses on the Isle. They came in like a pestilence, under full sail. My father knew something was wrong when they didn’t strike their mains but maintained flank speed much too far into shallow water. Most ships would come into port under topgallants alone. These three came on as if they planned to crash through the wharf and dock somewhere on the opposite side of the city.’ Mark leaned on the chair and Sallax, mistaking his movement for something more aggressive, broke from his reverie and barked, ‘Sit down! Both of you!’ His fist closed tightly around the rapier hilt. Although tears fell freely, his voice no longer trembled. Instead, his tone was flat, deadly.
Steven sat near the end of the bed, as far from the rapier as possible, and within an arm’s length of the staff. His left hand almost burned with the desire to reach out: it was the staff’s power calling to him, trying to protect him from Sallax. Suddenly, he thought he understood how the grettan had been killed.
He turned back to Sallax as the partisan continued his story.
‘When they finally struck their mains and topsails, my father sighed. I remember that sigh, because he was relieved, you see. When he saw those sails come down, his thoughts went from worry to amusement. In his mind, those ships went from a threat to a comedy and I will never forget him smiling at me, gripping me by the shoulder and saying, “They just don’t know how to sail, Salboy.” We watched them together, waiting for them to come about and drop anchor. The sun was setting behind them and we had to strain our eyes to see. I squinted directly into the sun to catch a glimpse of one captain. He was backlit by fire, and I could see him giving orders to men in the rigging, and then, in an instant, I remember the sun going out.’
‘Was it magic?’ Mark glanced over at Steven, who nodded slightly. They needed to keep him talking.
‘No.’ Sallax looked between the two roommates without blinking. ‘It was the mainsail snapping back into the wind. It blocked the sun for a moment, but in that instant, I knew we were dead.’
‘They reset the sails,’ Steven said softly. ‘It was all a trick to get in close to the shoreline.’
‘That’s right.’ Sallax said. ‘And then it began.’ He ran a thumb along the edge of the battle-axe in his belt and Steven saw a trickle of blood cross his palm.
‘Was there no Malakasian occupation force in the port?’ Steven asked.
‘Oh yes, a huge frigate, with a crew of hundreds. That was their first target. One came from the north, the other from the south. They attacked at flank speed right there in the harbour. Those captains must have been madmen, absolutely insane, or they knew the harbour bed better than anyone in Eldarn. The two ships closed on the frigate, but before they grappled and boarded, they strafed the wharf with thousands of flaming arrows, pitch and tar arrows set alight. Within moments every building was in flames. They wanted to create as much mayhem as possible onshore, to scatter shop owners and merchants, and their plan was executed perfectly. The fires kept the townspeople busy, and many believed the arrows were a diversion to draw attention away from the naval frigate. Somehow, I knew better. I knew they were coming ashore just as soon as they finished destroying that ship.
‘My parents’ shop was one of the first hit and my father turned to hustle me inside. I imagine to this day, he planned to collect Brynne and my mother and spirit us all out the back to safety.’
‘But he was hit,’ Mark predicted under his breath.
‘Right again, Mark,’ Sallax confirmed. ‘We were two, maybe three paces from safety when a burning Ronan shaft took him right between the shoulder blades. I heard my mother wail, an inhuman cry of despair. You see, the pitch on the arrows sprayed out when they struck something hard, which spread the flames to the surrounding area. So while my mother screamed and Brynne cried in her crib, I stood and watched as my father’s body burned to a cinder, right there on the front step.’
Sallax paused a moment and Steven ventured to ask, ‘But why kill Gilmour? This was a raid, a pirate band.’
Sallax ignored the question. ‘They burned the frigate to the waterline. Archers set the rigging aflame; so the captain couldn’t order the sails set to make way. They never even hoisted the anchor. It was like watching sharks on a sleeping whale. They killed the crew and hanged the Malakasian captain from the stern rail. His legs dangled beneath the surface and I imagine he tried to find some solid purchase among the waters of Southport Harbour as his life ebbed away. There were a few Malakasian soldiers in town, but in typical Malakasian fashion, they were out of practice.’