The merchant came forward slowly and lashed out, slapping Versen hard across the face. ‘You’ll watch your mouth on my ship, traitor!’ he screamed, spitting into Versen’s face. ‘I take orders from no one but my prince – your prince, you rutting son of a whore.’
Versen didn’t react; his gaze was locked on Carpello’s right hand.
Calmly he asked, ‘That scar on your hand, have you had it long?’
Carpello Jax flexed his hand. ‘Believe me, scumbag, I have had it my whole life and it will not hold me back when it comes to meting out just punishment.’
‘And the mole, that mole alongside your cavernous nose? Have you had that long as well?’
With a malevolent smile, Carpello turned to Brexan, ignoring Versen’s attempts to bait him. ‘I must ask you some questions, my lovely.’ Versen imagined he could smell days-old garlic on the man’s breath. ‘Depending on how you respond will determine whether the scum lives.’ The merchant was clearly enjoying himself despite his discomfort. ‘Since you seem so little inclined to share what you know, I doubt your woodsman will see another day. I can assure you that our little chat will not prolong your life through the end of this – I would say, under other circumstances – glorious morning.’
‘A very good friend of mine looks forward to meeting you,’ Versen chuckled. ‘If I were you, I would take my own life rather than ever run into her again.’
‘A woman? I shall be enchanted, I’m sure.’
‘You’ll be dead,’ Versen said flatly. ‘And she will make it last for Twinmoons. You will be amazed at how much pain you can feel before you lose consciousness.’
Brexan was confused by the interchange, but said nothing.
‘Are you trying to frighten me, woodsman? I am not the one standing here in bonds and about to have a most unpleasant day.’
‘No,’ Versen replied, ‘not frighten you. I just wanted to make quite sure you understand that a grisly death is on its way to Orindale right now. You should run far, run fast – maybe sail on to Gorsk and hide out in the mountains. It might take her a little longer to find you that way.’
‘Well, I appreciate your concern,’ the merchant said as he dismissed the warning with a wave of his oddly scarred hand, ‘but I feel my own needs are the greater.’
While the two men spoke, the Seron had moved behind the prisoners; now, without warning, Haden picked up the merchant’s cane and struck Versen across the back of his legs. The woodsman roared and fell to his knees. Karn wrapped his arms tightly about Brexan’s torso, pinning her hands down; although she kicked and screamed curses, Karn was unmoved. She froze as Rala and Haden hefted Versen towards the stern rail and dumped him overboard. Slowly, as if he had all morning, the scarred warrior found the other end of the rope attached to the twine manacles – Versen’s lifeline – and tied it to a stanchion. It pulled tight as the woodsman’s body was dragged through the water behind the ship. Brexan wailed and kicked wildly at her captors. The crew cheered from the decks and up in the rigging: this was certainly better entertainment than a usual morning at sea afforded them.
Carpello watched, smiling, as Versen bobbed along in the schooner’s wake, then turned to the young Malakasian. ‘He does not have much time, my lovely, so I would encourage you to focus.’ Brexan could see his crooked yellow teeth behind cracked and bleeding lips. ‘Who has the key?’
‘The what?’ Brexan strained her eyes, trying to see Versen’s head come above the surface of the water. There it was. He managed a breath just then; she was certain.
‘Focus, my lovely,’ the merchant repeated, grasping her face in his hands and forcing her to look directly at him. ‘The stone. I am looking for the stone.’
Brexan’s mind raced; there was no time. Versen would surely drown. She had to act swiftly if she were to save his life, and there would be only one chance for a rescue. Trusting her instincts, she cried out, ‘Yes, all right, I’ll tell you.’
‘That’s grand, my lovely,’ and then to Karn, ‘Release her.’
As soon as the Seron relaxed his grip, Brexan reached back into his belt and drew his knife in a smooth gesture. She spun on her heels and brought the blade around in an arc that sliced across Carpello’s stomach, opening his abdomen through his frilly silk tunic. The wound was superficial, but it was enough to make him scream in terror. Brexan would have lingered over that look for the rest of the morning aven, but there was no time. Instead, she continued her circle, next slicing through the muscles in Karn’s thigh. Screaming, the Seron leader fell backwards onto the deck and the young woman saw her escape route open. Two steps to freedom. Already Rala and Haden were moving to intercept her. Using all her strength, the soldier took two running steps towards the stern rail and dived in. As she made her escape, she reached out with Karn’s knife to slash the rope: one swipe, one chance from midair to sever the cord and free the woodsman.
Her heart sank as she fell headlong into the water. She had missed.
Brexan slammed awkwardly into the water and a stinging pain lanced across her neck and back. She ignored the discomfort, kicking swiftly towards the surface. She had to cut that line. She nearly cried out for joy when she saw the taut stretch of rope rushing by overhead, a second chance. Breaking the surface, she saw Versen’s body coming up fast, not all that far from where she had emerged; she kicked hard two, three, then four times, desperate to reach the rope before he was dragged by. Too slow! She screamed inside her head: Faster! Kick harder. Swimming with her wrists bound together was nearly impossible. Bring your hands up. Reach for the rope. Cut it. Cut it now.
Brexan slashed at the thick hemp trailing Versen behind the Falkan Dancer, but the knife didn’t cut through. She needed a chance to slice twice or perhaps three times in the same place, not simply to hack away at the rope as it hurtled past her at fifteen knots.
Choking back a cry, Brexan spat out a mouthful of seawater, took a deep breath and in a last-ditch effort, leaped onto Versen as he was dragged by.
The force of the schooner’s progress nearly broke her grip, but she clung to his tunic belt. They were too heavy together and Versen sank beneath the waves, unable to surface, unable to get another breath. She inched her way up his body, careful not to drop the knife. Her limbs screamed with the effort and her lungs were bursting, but every time she thought she would have to give up, to let go, she remembered that Versen had been submerged far longer.
Then it was there, the knife against the rope. Cut! Cut faster. Hold your breath. Cut! Her eyes stung and her lungs burned for air. Gripping Versen’s wrists with her fingertips, she worked the blade back and forth as quickly as she could, but it wasn’t enough. She had to let go. She had to surface. She needed air. She had to leave him. Death first? No, she couldn’t do it. Her will to live was too strong. She would leave him to die. Slashing one last time with the tip of the knife, Brexan let go. She released her grip and felt herself slow down almost immediately as the Falkan Dancer raced north.
The sea masked her tears…
Then Versen was there with her. It had worked – that last slice had severed the twine and Brexan, empowered by a surge of adrenalin, reached for him and hauled him to the surface.
Coughing and spitting, the Ronan patriot struggled to speak.
‘Just relax,’ Brexan ordered, her arms aching with the effort to keep him afloat. ‘Relax and breathe. Just breathe.’
He coughed and managed, ‘He-’
‘Shut up, Ox. Tell me later.’ Brexan heaved him as far as she could above the waterline but she got his head and shoulders clear for only a moment before Versen sank back to chin level. ‘What could be so rutting important?’
Versen’s body was wracked by a long, wet cough, then he managed to draw several deep breaths before shouting, ‘That’s the bastard whore’s get who raped Brynne! That bleeding horsecock raped Brynne!’