Lord of the Silver Bow Read online

  The man grinned at him. “You’d be Xander. Your father spoke of you, said when you were seven or eight you took on a pack of wild dogs.”

  “It was one dog,” Xander said. “It was attacking our goats.”

  Oniacus laughed. “You are very honest, boy, and I can see your father in you.” He passed the water sack back to Xander. Then he called out, “We’re going to see some sunlight, lads. Every third man aloft—and make sure those oars are sheathed tight.” Men began to ease themselves from the rowing benches and make their way to the hatches. Oniacus remained where he was. “Take water to the men remaining,” he told Xander.

  The boy struggled along the cramped and shifting deck, offering drinks to the sweating crewmen. Most thanked him; some joked with him. Then he came alongside a thin older man who was pricking blisters on his hand with a curved dagger blade. His palms were sore and bleeding. “They look painful,” said Xander. The rower ignored him but took the water sack and drank deeply.

  Oniacus appeared alongside, carrying a bucket on a rope. Leaning out of the oar port, he lowered the bucket into the sea, then drew it up. “Put your hands in this, Attalus,” he said. “The saltwater will dry out those blisters, and the skin will harden in no time.” The sailor silently bathed his hands then leaned back. Oniacus dipped thin strips of cloth in the water. “Now I’ll bind them,” he said.

  “They don’t need binding,” the rower replied.

  “Then you are a tougher man than me, Attalus,” Oniacus said amiably. “At the start of every new season my hands bleed, and the oar handle feels as if it’s on fire.”

  “It is unpleasant,” the man agreed, his tone softening.

  “You can always try the straps. If they don’t work for you, then remove them.”

  The rower nodded and offered his hands.

  Oniacus wrapped the wet cloth around Attalus’ blistered palms, splitting the cloth and knotting it at the wrists. “This is Xander,” he said as he applied the bandages. “His father was my friend. He died in a battle last year. Fine man.”

  “The dead are always fine men,” Attalus said coldly. “My father was a drunken wretch who broke my mother’s bones. At his funeral men wept at the loss of his greatness.”

  “There is truth in that,” agreed Oniacus. “However, on the Ithaka—as on the Xanthos—there were only fine men. Ox does not choose wretches. He has a magic eye that sees our hearts. I have to say that sometimes it is infuriating. We are sailing shorthanded because of it. Ox turned away at least twenty yesterday.” Oniacus swung to Xander. “Time for you to return to your duties,” he said.

  Xander hung the nearly empty water sack on its hook and climbed to the upper deck. Helikaon called him over. He lifted a wax-sealed jug, broke the seal, and filled two copper cups with a golden liquid. “Take these to our Mykene passengers,” he said.

  Xander carried the cups carefully down the steps and across the shifting deck. It was not easy retaining balance, and he was pleased that not a drop of the liquid spilled. “The lord Helikaon asked me to bring these to you,” he said. The man with the cold hard face took them from him without a word of thanks. Xander scurried away without looking him in the eye. He was the most frightening man Xander had ever seen. From the other side of the deck he watched them salute the Golden One and drink. They were standing close to the deck rail, and Xander found himself hoping the ship would pitch suddenly and throw them both over the side. Then he noticed that the older warrior was looking at him. He felt a stab of fear, wondering if the evil one could read his mind. The Mykene held out the goblets, and Xander realized he was supposed to retrieve them. Swiftly he crossed the deck, collected the goblets, and took them to Zidantas.

  “What should I do now?” he asked.

  “Go and watch the dolphins, Xander,” said Ox. “When you are needed you will be summoned.”

  Xander returned to where he had left his small bag of possessions. Inside there was a block of cheese and some dried fruit. Hungry now, he sat and ate. The grumpy old shipwright came past at one point and almost trod on him.

  The boy found the next two hours fascinating. Helikaon and Zidantas shouted out orders, and the Xanthos danced on the waves. The port-side rowers would lean in to their oars just as the starboard men lifted theirs from the water. The Xanthos would lurch and spin, changing direction, then surge forward once more as both banks of oars bit into the waves. Xander loved every minute of it, especially when the younger Mykene warrior fell to his knees and threw up. The older one, with the hard face, looked somewhat green, but he held grimly to the deck rail, staring out at the sea. At last the maneuvers were over, and Zidantas called out for the men to rest.

  The wind was gusting a little now, rippling the black horse sail. Xander glanced toward the south. The sky was darker there. Many of the oarsmen had climbed to the upper deck. Most, like him, also stared toward the south. Some of them gathered together, and Xander heard someone say: “Poseidon swims. We’ll be lucky to make land before the storm hits.”

  “It’s that cursed Gyppto,” said someone else. Xander stared at him. The speaker was a wide-shouldered man with thinning blond hair and a straggly beard. “Poseidon took him once, and we thwarted him.”

  That was a disquieting thought, and it frightened Xander. Everyone knew Poseidon could be an angry god, but it had not occurred to him that an immortal might have wanted this stranger to be swallowed by the sea. The conversation continued. Other men joined in. Xander could feel their fear as they discussed how best to placate the god. “Need to throw him back,” said the man with the straggly beard. “It’s the only way. Otherwise we’ll all be dead.” There were some grunts of agreement, but most of the men stayed silent. Only one spoke against the plan. It was the curly-haired lead oarsman, Oniacus.

  “A little early to be talking about murder, Epeus, don’t you think?”

  “He is marked by Poseidon,” Epeus replied. “I don’t want to kill anyone, but the man is beyond saving. If the god wants him, he will take him. You want us to be dragged down with him?”

  Xander saw that the two Mykene warriors also were listening to the men, but they kept their own counsel. As the wind picked up and the ship began to pitch more violently, Xander moved away from the crew and made his way to the rear deck. The man with the straw hat was there, talking to Zidantas and the Golden One. Xander waited at the foot of the steps, unsure what to do. He did not want to see the injured man thrown over the side, but equally, he did not want to incur the wrath of Poseidon. He tried to think of what his father might have done. Would he have thrown the man back into the sea? Xander did not think so. His father was a hero. The Golden One had said so. Heroes did not murder helpless men.

  Xander climbed to the stern deck. The Golden One saw him. “Do not fear a little breeze, Xander,” he said.

  “I am not frightened of the wind, lord,” said Xander, and told him what he had heard from the oarsmen. Before the lord could reply, a group of sailors began to gather below them. Xander turned and saw two seamen half dragging the shipwrecked man through the throng.

  “Poseidon is angry!” shouted the burly Epeus. “We must give back what we stole from him, Golden One.”

  Helikaon moved past Xander and stared down at the sailors. He raised his hand, and there was instant silence except for the howling of the wind. For a moment Helikaon did not speak but merely stood. “You are a fool, Epeus,” he said finally. “Poseidon was not angry. But he is angry now!” He pointed at the troublemaker. “You have brought his fury down upon us.”

  “I have done nothing, lord!” answered Epeus, his voice suddenly fearful.

  “Oh, but you have!” roared Helikaon. “You think Poseidon is such a weak god that he could not kill a single man who has been in the sea for two days? You think he could not have dragged him down in a heartbeat, as he did with others of his crew? No. The great god of the sea did not want him dead. He wanted him alive. He wanted the Xanthos to rescue him. And now you have assaulted him and are threatenin
g to kill him. You may have doomed us all. For now, as all can see, Poseidon swims!”

  Even as he spoke, the sky grew darker. Thunder boomed.

  “What can we do, lord?” shouted another man.

  “We cannot run,” Helikaon told them. “Poseidon hates cowards. We must turn and face the great god like men and show that we are worthy of his blessing. Take in the sail! All oarsmen to the lower deck and await command. Do it now! And swiftly.”

  The men scattered to obey him, leaving Gershom sitting, bewildered, on the deck. Zidantas leaned in to Xander. “Help him back to the midships. There will be less heave and pitch there. Tie yourselves to the mast. We are in for a wild ride.”

  Xander scrambled down to the deck, which was pitching and twisting under his feet. He fell, then rose, and took Gershom by the arm. Helping him to stand, he led the way forward. It was almost impossible to stay upright, and they stumbled several times before reaching the mast. Xander looped a trailing rope around Gershom, tying it tight. Then he glanced around for something to tie to himself. There was nothing.The storm swept down on them, the wind howling and rain lashing the decks. Xander clung on to the rope around Gershom. The big man reached out with a bandaged hand and drew him close. Above the howling of the wind Xander heard Zidantas bellowing orders to the oarsmen. The ship swung, then rocked wildly as a huge wave crashed against the hull. Slowly the Xanthos turned in to the storm. Another massive wave struck the beam, washing over the main deck. Xander almost lost hold of the rope as his body was gripped by the wave and dragged sideways. Gershom cried out as his injured hand gripped the boy’s tunic, holding him in place.

  A scream came from above. One of the sailors tying the sail had been dislodged. Xander saw him fall. His body smashed into the deck rail on the starboard side, tearing a section loose, and then he was gone. Darkness descended. Afternoon passed into evening and then into night. Xander clung to the rope as the storm lashed the great ship. He held on as tightly as he could, but after a while his fingers were numb and his strength began to fail. Only Gershom’s powerful grip kept him from being swept away. The darkness was interspersed with brilliant flashes of lightning followed by thunderclaps so loud that Xander felt they would tear the ship apart. The deck heaved, tilting up, throwing him back, and then plunging down, causing him to spin forward. Cold, wet, and terrified, he prayed for life.

  Ever more weary, the boy clung on. The Xanthos was heading into the storm now, climbing the waves and then sliding into the troughs. Water cascaded over the prow. Suddenly the ship lurched as the tiring port-side rowers momentarily lost their rhythm. A roaring wall of water ripped across the Xanthos. It struck Xander, lifting him and dashing his body against the mast. Half-stunned, he lost hold of the rope and was torn from Gershom’s grip. The great ship pitched sharply, and Xander slid across the wet deck. Lightning lit the sky. He saw he was sliding inexorably toward the hole in the ruined deck rail. His hands scrabbled for something to cling to.

  As the opening yawned before him, he caught a glimpse of shining bronze. The Mykene warrior Argurios, seeing his plight, had let go of the rail and hurled himself across the deck. His hand grabbed Xander’s tunic, and the two of them spun toward the gaping hole. At the last moment Argurios grabbed a trailing rope. Xander felt the deck slip from under him and was now directly over the raging sea. He looked up and saw that the Mykene was also off the deck, hanging on the rope, his face twisted in a grimace of pain. Xander knew that in all his armor Argurios could not save them both. At any moment the Mykene would let go, and Xander would be doomed.

  But he did not let go. The Xanthos leapt and pitched. Argurios was thrown against the side. Xander’s tunic started to rip.

  Then the wind began to die down, the rain eased, and moonlight broke through the clouds. Two sailors left their positions of safety and braved the tilting deck. Xander saw Oniacus grab Argurios, hauling him back to safety. Then Attalus reached down, gripping Xander’s arm and dragging him to the deck.

  Huddled against the deck rail, Xander began to tremble. His hands would not stop shaking. The Golden One appeared alongside him, patting him on the shoulder. He moved to where Argurios was standing, kneading his fingers. Xander saw there was blood on Argurios’ hand.

  “That was bravely done,” said Helikaon.

  “I need no praise from you,” Argurios replied, turning away and returning to his companion.

  Zidantas crouched down beside Xander. “Well, lad, did you enjoy your first storm?”

  “No.”

  “You enjoyed surviving it, though?”

  “Oh, yes.” The trembling began to pass. “I thought I was going to die.”

  “You were lucky, Xander. There was only one life lost.”

  “Was it Epeus?”

  “No. A young Lykian called Hippolatos. Good lad.”

  “I don’t understand. If Poseidon was angry with Epeus, why would he kill Hippolatos?”

  “Life is full of mysteries,” Zidantas told him.

  As the seas continued to calm, a ragged cheer went up from the crew. Helikaon walked among them, and they gathered around him.

  “Poseidon has blessed the Xanthos,” he called out. “We swam with him, and he read the courage in your hearts. Every man among you will receive double payment.” The cheers rang out even louder, and a mood of exultation swept the ship.

  Xander did not feel exultant.

  Helikaon came to him then. He crouched down alongside the trembling boy. “The world is full of fear, Xander,” he said, “but you were a hero today.”

  “I did nothing, lord.”

  “I saw you. You first tied Gershom to the mast. Not yourself. You put his survival before your own. Your father would be proud of you, as I am. And you saw two other heroes. Gershom clung to you though his hands were torn and bloody. Argurios risked his life so that you would not die. There is greatness in both of these men and in you.”

  II

  Gershom sat in the bow of the Xanthos, knees drawn up, a ragged piece of cloth around his raw shoulders and sore arms. The storm had passed, and though the moon was shining in a star-filled sky, he still trembled occasionally. Sudden shivers would rack his frame. Squinting through swollen lids, his eyes were fixed on the approaching land, willing it to come close more quickly. Never had he been so eager to feel steady ground under his feet. Close by, Zidantas was leaning over the side, staring intently down at the clear dark water below the prow. Beside him a crewman garbed only in a black loincloth was plunging a long notched pole into the sea and calling out the depth. The Xanthos inched forward.

  “How long will we be ashore?” Gershom asked, hoping Zidantas would say several days.

  “Just overnight,” Zidantas replied shortly. Without looking to the rear of the ship, he signaled twice with his right arm to the helmsman, and Gershom felt the great ship adjust fractionally in her course. He had been told there were dangerous shoals in these waters, and he stayed silent, unwilling to break the concentration of the experienced seamen. He could see that most of the oars were held high; only six dipped regularly in and out of the water as the Xanthos crept toward the safety of the shore.

  To starboard was a tall island, its top shrouded in lush vegetation, its cliffs white with seabirds and their droppings. As the ship drew abreast of the isle, Gershom could see that it screened the entrance to a great bay. The sight of it made him catch his breath, and next to him he heard the boy Xander gasp.

  The bay was large and almost circular. Around it gray and white cliffs towered high and jagged. At the center of the cliffs, directly ahead of them, two tall peaks of bluish rock stood sentinel, shining in the moonlight. At their base a glittering silver waterfall ran down through a riot of greenery and then appeared as a small river. Gershom could make out a cluster of buildings rising steeply in a jumble of white walls and red roofs, and at the top a fortress looked out over the sea. The river estuary divided the wide strip of white beach neatly in half. Other ships were drawn up on the strand, and campfire
s were burning on the beach.

  The boy glanced at him, mouth open. “It’s beautiful!” he said, his eyes alight with wonder.

  Gershom smiled at him and felt his spirits lift. This child had traveled on the Great Green for only one day, had survived a violent storm, had looked certain death in the eye—yet here he was, undeterred, looking forward to his next adventure, eyes wide with anticipation.

  “Where are we? What is this place called?” Xander asked.

  Zidantas took his eyes off the water at last and stood up straight, his hands easing the small of his back. “We’re clear now,” he said to the crewman, who nodded and then returned back down the ship, pole in hand. Zidantas swung to the boy. “The locals call it the Bay of Blue Owls,” he said. “Others call it Bad Luck Bay.”

  “Why do you come here if it’s bad luck?” Gershom asked, thinking, I’ve seen enough bad luck without seeking it out.

  Zidantas smiled without humor. “It’s never been bad luck for us, Gyppto. Just for other ships.”

  Gershom could see the shore quite clearly now. Most of the ships were beached together to the right side of the river, but three black ships lay to the left, far from the others. He saw Zidantas’ expression grow darker as he gazed at the black galleys. “You know them?” he asked.

  “Yes, I know them.”

  “Rival traders?”

  Leaning in close so that the boy could not hear, Zidantas whispered, “They trade in blood, Gyppto. They are pirates.”

  Xander had climbed to the topmost point of the high, curved prow. “Look at all those people,” he shouted, pointing to the beach.

  There was a crowd around a score of stalls set up on the sand; small fires had been lit, and more were sparking to life as he watched. Gershom almost believed he could smell roasting meat. His shrunken stomach gripped him painfully for a moment.

  “Yes,” said Zidantas, “it’s a busy little place. This kingdom grows rich on the tolls the Fat King levies. But he keeps the bay safe for all ships and—mostly—for sailors from every land. Good and bad. You’ll meet all sorts here. They come to do a little trading, a little whoring.” He dropped a wink at Xander, who blushed. “But mostly they come for safe anchorage for the night. The storm will have washed all sorts of flotsam into Bad Luck Bay tonight.”