Half the World (Shattered Sea #2)(38)
With one last effort they heaved the South Wind over a stubborn brow and onto the flat, the runners grinding to a halt.
“We’ll rest here for now!” called Father Yarvi.
There was a chorus of grateful groans, and men tied their ropes off around the nearest trees, dropping among the knotted roots where they stood.
“Thank the gods,” whispered Thorn, pushing her hands into her aching back. “The downslope’ll be easier. It has to be.”
“Guess we’ll see when we get there,” said Brand, shading his eyes. The ground dropped away ahead but, further on, indistinct in the haze, it rose again. It rose in forested slopes, higher, and higher, to a ridge above even the one they stood on now.
Thorn stared at it, jaw hanging open in sick disbelief. “More and more, crushing with stones seems like it might have been the less painful option.”
“It’s not too late to change your mind,” said Father Yarvi. “We may be short of comforts out here, but I’m sure we can find stones.”
THE MAN WHO FOUGHT A SHIP
It was a grim and weary crew who struggled groaning from their beds, all wracked with aches and bruises from yesterday’s labor and looking forward to as hard a day ahead. Even Odda had no jokes as he contemplated the long drop down the forested hillside, the hint of water glimmering in the misty distance.
“Least it’s downhill,” said Brand.
Odda snorted as he turned away. “Ha.”
Brand soon found out his meaning. Uphill, the challenge had been dragging the South Wind on. Downhill, it was stopping her running off, which meant just as much work but a lot more danger. Not enough width on the crooked track for any help from the oxen, a dozen of the crew wrapped rags around sore hands, looped check-ropes around raw forearms and across aching shoulders padded with blankets and struggled along beside the ship, six of them on each side. They strained to keep her straight as she lurched down that lumpy hillside, Koll creeping ahead with his bucket, slipping in to daub the runners whenever they set to smoking.
“Steady,” grumbled Rulf, holding up a hand. “Steady!”
“Easier said than bloody done,” groaned Brand. He’d been given a rope, of course. The trouble with being able to lift heavy things is that when heavy things need lifting folk step out of the way and smile at you. He’d done some tough jobs to earn a crust for him and Rin but he’d never worked this hard in his life, hemp wet with sweat wound around one forearm, over his shoulders, then around the other, cutting at him with every step, legs all aquiver, boots scuffing at the loose earth and the slick leaves and the fallen pine needles, coughing on the dust Odda scuffled up ahead of him and flinching at the curses of Dosduvoi behind.
“When do we get to that damn river?” snarled Odda over his shoulder as they waited for a fallen tree to be heaved from the path.
“We’ll soon be able to float the boat in the one flowing out of me.” Brand shook his head and the sweat flew in fat drops from his wet hair.
“As soon as Safrit brings the water it’s straight out of my back and down my crack,” said Dosduvoi from behind him. “Are you going to tell us how you got the scar, Fror?”
“Cut myself shaving,” the Vansterman called from the other side of the ship, then left a long pause before adding, “Never shave with an ax.”
Thorn was one of five carrying the part-carved mast. Brand could feel her eyes sharp as arrows in his back and guessed she was still furious over what he’d said about her mother. He hardly blamed her. Wasn’t Thorn who’d trotted off and left Rin to fend for herself, was it? Seemed whenever Brand lost his temper it was really himself he was angry at. He knew he ought to say sorry for it but words had never come easy to him. Sometimes he’d spend days picking over the right ones to say, but when he finally got his mouth open the wrong ones came drooling straight out.
“Reckon I’d be better off if I never said another word,” he grunted to himself.
“You’d get no bloody complaints from me,” he heard Thorn mutter, and was just turning to give her a tongue-lashing he’d no doubt soon regret when he felt a jolt through his rope that dragged him floundering into a heap of leaves, only just keeping his feet.
“Easy!” roared Dosduvoi, and hauled back hard on his own rope. A knot slipped with a noise like a whip cracking and he gave a shocked yelp and went flying over backwards.
Odda squealed out, “Gods!” as he was jerked onto his face, knocking the next man over so he lost his grip on his own rope, the loose end snapping like a thing alive.
There was a flurry of wingbeats as a bird took to the sky and the South Wind lurched forward, one of the men on the other side shrieking as his rope tore across his shoulders and spun him around, knocking Fror sideways, the sudden weight dragging the rest of the men over like skittles.
Brand saw Koll leaning in with his pitch, staring up in horror as the high prow shuddered over him. He tried to scramble clear, slipped on his back under the grinding keel.
No time for first thoughts, let alone second ones. Maybe that was a good thing. Brand’s father had always told him he wasn’t much of a thinker.
He bounded off the track in a shower of old leaves, dragging his rope around the nearest tree, a thick-trunked old beast with gnarled roots grasping deep into the hillside.
Folk were screaming over each other, timbers groaning, wood snapping, but Brand paid them no mind, wedged one boot up against the tree and then the other. With a grunt he forced his legs and his back out straight, leaning into the rope across his shoulders, hauling it taut so he was standing sideways from the trunk like one of the branches.