Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(52)

Gaff’s description of the ghost ship returned to him then and he shivered something clutched his throat, almost cutting off his breath. They’d found it looking clean and in order – simply empty of all souls. Gaff had even mentioned unfinished meals on the common table in the galley.

As if everyone had merely walked away … or been taken.

He shook his head to clear it of such fancies. This was no ghost ship. He and Whellen were here. He returned to the stern and the narrow companionway. Here he found the door to the stores closed and barred. He banged upon it.

‘Open up, damn you! This is Burl! The captain! I order you to open up!’

He waited, but no one answered. He raised his fist once more but froze as he sensed someone there, listening, perhaps pressed up against their side of the door. ‘Who’s there?’ he murmured, lowering his voice. ‘Who is it? Gaff? Are you there?’

Something shifted behind the door, cloth brushing against wood. ‘Gaff is gone,’ came a strangled whisper.

‘Gone? Gone where?’

After a long silence he thought he heard a gasped, ‘Taken.’

‘Taken? By who, man? Who? Answer me!’ He waited, listening. Only his harsh breathing sounded in the companionway, that and the weak creaking of the timbers as the vessel coasted onward over the still waters. ‘Who?’

A voice, speaking perhaps through choking misery, sobbed: ‘Maybe you!’ The sobbing climbed into abject weeping and someone slid down the boards of the door.

Burl flinched away as if the man’s fit were somehow contagious.

He climbed to the deck, perhaps hoping for open clean air, but he was not refreshed. The atmosphere was chill and dead. His breath plumed about him in a cloud. On a hunch, he started up the rigging for the crow’s nest. When he was halfway up the head reappeared above and a voice called, high and strangled: ‘I’ll jump! I swear! Come no closer!’

Burl was angry at himself for not being able to identify the crewman, so choked with terror was the voice. Was it Juth? Or maybe Bolen? ‘That you, Bolen?’ he called.

‘Stop or I’ll jump!’ the voice shrieked.

Burl halted. He raised a hand. ‘All right! I’m stopping. What is it? What’s stalking the crew?’

The man was weeping. ‘I don’t know! Could be anyone!’ The head ducked from sight. ‘So keep away!’

Burl cursed under his breath. Anyone? And why? What’s to gain? A lone person can’t possibly sail a damned ship. It didn’t make any sense.

He started back down the rigging. On the deck a suspicion took him and he ducked into the cabin: Whellen still lay within. He went to the galley and collected a handful of dried biscuits then returned to the cabin, shut the door, adjusted the chair once more to face the entrance and sat, sword across his lap.

He chewed on a biscuit and waited for whatever was stalking the crew to come for him.

Some time later, he jerked awake at a noise – or at least he thought he heard a noise. He thought it sounded like a splash. He straightened on numb stiff legs and reached for the latch. Then he remembered something and stopped to look: Whellen still lay beneath his blanket. Hoar frost gleamed on the coarse wool weave. Burl clenched and unclenched his hands to warm them, then pulled open the door. The iron latch was so cold it burned his fingers.

Again he found the deck empty. The waters of the Sea of Dread remained calm – unnaturally so. Any body of water of its size ought to have considerable waves. The sky above was darkening into twilight. Stars shone through and Burl blinked and rubbed his eyes as he gazed at them: he recognized none of the constellations. Where was the Rudder? The Cart? The Great Cowl? It was as if he were staring up at another sky.

He spun, raising his sword: for a moment he’d been certain someone was behind him. Indeed, he still had that prickling feeling that someone was watching him. Glancing about to be sure he was alone, he sheathed the sword, then started up the rigging. This time no one challenged him. He reached the crow’s nest and peeked within: empty. Perhaps what he’d heard had been a splash. He climbed back down.

Everywhere he checked it was the same: doors that were formerly locked and barred now hung open. None showed any sign of having been hacked or forced. The stores and armoury were empty, as was the hold. As far as he could determine Whellen and he were now the only two souls on board the Strike.

He returned to the mid-deck.

This time he was not alone. Another stood at the side, facing away out over the limpid waves. A familiar blanket lay draped about his shoulders: Whellen.

So. Now it was his turn. Someone had slain the rest of all the souls on board and now only the two of them were left alive. And Burl knew it wasn’t him; he raised his weapon and advanced upon the man. ‘You’ll not find me so terrified,’ he called.

Whellen turned and Burl was surprised by his expression. He’d expected a snarl or gloating, but the man just looked sad and worn. He wasn’t even armed.

‘I’ve been dreaming,’ he said, and his gaze slid away to the sea.

This drew Burl up short. The blade quivered as he shook. ‘Dreaming? Dreaming of what?’

‘Of dread.’

Now he was certain the man was mad. He’d harboured an insane murderer. Against all the crew’s exhortations, he’d sheltered the man. What a fool he’d been. He probably deserved to die far more than they. He clenched the shortsword in both hands but still it shuddered. ‘Why?’ he managed, his throat almost choked off, so dry was it.