The Silence left the border-realm and landed with a colossal splash. Akkarulf breathed in the sea air gratefully. He wondered if he would ever grow used to the infernal place, he had not the Wolf's size, skill at arms or unshakeable confidence in the protection of the gods to protect him from the howling demons within.
The giant stood at the prow, looking towards the horizon. Akkarulf joined him, but before he could say a word the Wolf swept an arm out to encompass the sea.
"What do you see, Akkarulf?"
Akkarulf looked out. A smudge was barely visible near the horizon, but as he focused on it he could start making out a dark shape like a scorpion's tail and triangular sails.
"Black sails and a curved stern, yarrl."
"Anything else?"
"They seem to be alone."
"That they are. What else can you tell me?"
Akkarulf squinted, and shook his head.
"At this distance, yarrl, I'm lucky I can even see the sails. I can't even tell if they're moving."
The Wolf nodded.
"Then I will tell you this: It's riding rather high in the water, and headed east. What does this mean?"
Akkarulf opened his mouth to say he didn't know, then thought better of it.
"That... it doesn't carry much we can pillage... and... it's on an outbound voyage?"
"Correct on both counts."
The Wolf nodded.
"That's a Druchii slaver, and it is indeed probably empty. Fortunately it isn't the cargo we're after, though it would have been a nice surprise. We want her crew."
Akkarulf waited, but the Wolf said nothing more.
"So what now, yarrl?"
The giant turned towards him, looking surprised.
"Do? You tell me. The time has come, Akkarulf."
"Y- yarrl?"
"With any luck, Sven will already have gathered the lumber to rebuild the Seafang once we return. Which means I will no longer need to be on this ship, meaning in turn that I will need someone I can trust to helm it without constant supervision."
Akkarulf's eyes widened.
"I gave you command of the rust-born's fleet for no reason other than you being the closest at hand. Now go and prove to me that you deserve it!"
"Y-yes yarrl! All crew on deck! Full sail, man the scorpions!"
The Wolf waited until Akkarulf had finished giving orders to roar at his marauders. They hurriedly moved to the gunwales, readying axes and shields, their gazes fixed on the approaching prize. The Wolf joined them.
The Ironborn at the prow-mounted scorpion turned around to give Akkarulf a questioning look. With a thrill, he realized that they had looked to him and not the Wolf for orders. He gauged the distance, remembering what the other Ironborn had told him of striking the flying Rhaegal from miles away, and nodded, feeling the Wolf's judging gaze on him.
"We'll take out their mainsail. Higher... Higher... Loose!"
The bolt surged forward, too fast for any mortal eyes to see. Akkarulf followed it until it struck the slaver's sail, tearing away a piece the size of a cow. The crewmen reloaded the machine without waiting for his order.
"Again!"
He could now see movement on the slaver's deck. Another bolt was loosed, but passed harmlessly between the sail and the deck.
"Damn it, too low! Wait for it... Loose!"
Now the slaver was starting to turn about. The third bolt struck the prow and remained impaled upon it.
"Higher... Higher... Now!"
The fourth bolt struck through the sail then the mast, snapping it at the base. A volley rose from the stricken ship, but fell far short of the Silence. Akkarulf looked at where they had landed and then at the Silence's helmsman.
"Aron, ready! To port on my word!"
The slaver was growing larger, a sleek, black-sailed craft with a sculpted stern and its own scorpions mounted on either side. Even stalled it radiated the same sense of menace as an unsheathed knife in a man's hand. It was unlike any Akkarulf had seen before, and he wondered where exactly the Wolf had taken them, and who these Druchii were who could build such ships.
The scorpion crew could see their target now and were taking aim without waiting for Akkarulf to instruct them. He concentrated on the ship, seeing the slavers ready their own scorpions and turned to Aron.
"Now!"
The Silence lurched to port, just as another swarm of bolts lifted from the slaver. They buzzed down and struck only water where the Silence's deck would have been.
The Wolf barked an order. At his command, the marauders held up their wooden shields, two of them running up to the fore scorpion to protect its crew.
The Silence barreled towards its victim, its sails stretched taut. Another volley of bolts launched from the slaver, and this time made more of an impact, several bolts slamming into the Silence's side, one smashing into a marauder.
"We'll take her from starboard! Ready the grapnels!"
The ships were now bow to bow. The Wolf's marauders began chanting the battle-names of the Ruinous Powers, banging their swords to their shields. The sound would have terrified any opponent, but the Druchii opposite showed no fear.
Grappling hooks were launched from the starboard scorpions, and pulled back under a storm of crossbow quarrels from the slaver. The crew wore armor, no Ironborn fearing death of drowning, but even so some arrows buried themselves in necks and shoulders.
"Pull her in! Furl sails!"
The ships now pulled closer to each other, colliding with a thud that reverberated throughout the hulls.
Without waiting for Akkarulf's signal, Norscans and Ironborn alike jumped the gunwale to land on the slaver ship, and the melee broke out.
The slavers were tall and fair-skinned, accentuated by the dark leathers they uniformly wore. Their faces all bore cruel expressions, laughing as they plunged wickedly-serrated blades into limbs. Their ears tapered to sharp points, much like their thunderbolt-adorned helmets.
The Wolf was yelling something at an ornately-adorned Druchii that Akkarulf took to be the captain. He did not understand the language, but the Wolf's obscene gestures made the intent quite clear. The captain's cheeks flushed, and he rushed into battle with the giant.
Akkarulf jumped ship and faced the closest Druchii. A woman, strikingly beautiful, yet with one of the haughtiest faces Akkarulf had ever seen apart from Cersei. It was twisted in a mask of hatred, and he hardly had time to bring up his shield before the Druchii's scimitar fell on him.
With a grunt, he pushed the shield and the blade away, smashing the pommel of his sword into the woman's shoulder. She hissed, and her other hand rose up, holding a small crossbow. Akkarulf jerked his shield back before him just as she loosed a flurry of bolts, each thudding into the shield.
He thrust his sword out, but the Druchii turned. His sword struck her cloak, which resembled the shed skin of a colossal black snake, but instead of piercing it, he found his sword bounced off the tough material. He withdrew his blade just as her scimitar came down, parrying it away.
He thrust up and out with the shield, the edge slamming into her chin. As she stumbled back, he hooked his foot around her ankle, sending her tumbling to the deck. Before she could recover he dropped to his knees on her, one on her midriff and one on her throat, just enough to leave her gasping for breath.
"Aron, here!"
The Ironborn mute ran up to him and expertly started tying up the downed Druchii. Leaving him to his task, Akkarulf stood up and surveyed the battle, covering himself and the Ironborn. Another wayward bolt struck his shield with a clang before burying itself in the deckplanks.
The tide seemed in their favor, with most of the marauders still standing and swinging. He was pleased to see the Ironborn were holding their own against the slavers. They did not have the bullish strength or murderous fury of the Norscans, but they made up for it by ganging up on the Druchii. If anything, the Ironborn were quite glad that the marauders were so eager to leap into the fray, holding the slavers' attention while they captured their prey. Where the Druchii hissed and spat at the outlanders and were answered in kind, the mute Ironborn replied nothing but threw nets and ropes over their foes, entangling them and binding their arms behind their backs.
Akkarulf felt Aron tap his leg twice. The woman was helpless now, and he cautiously moved to a new target, a Druchii man reloading a crossbow. Before he could slide in a bolt, Akkarulf's fist crashed into the side of his head, and he had grabbed the man before he could fall overboard to let Aron repeat his handiwork.
He looked up again. A few Norscans had fallen, those still standing roaring out warcries without regard to their losses. But their bellows were covered by the intermittent taunts and belly laughter of the Wolf, who was still dueling the Druchii captain.
Whatever he was saying certainly had an effect on the knife-eared man, who screeched in fury as he struck with snakelike speed, his every blow deflected by the Wolf's armor or shield. Finally the giant released his sword. The Druchii lunged, but the Wolf grabbed the captain's arm and swung him facefirst into the mast. The captain collapsed, and a bald marauder swiftly moved in to tie him up.
The battle pressed on, not one of the Druchii yielding even after the loss of their captain, but the weight of numbers was against them, even with their foes fighting to capture and not to kill. At last every one of them was subdued, but not before inflicting considerable casualties.
Nearly twenty men all told lay dead on the deck or had been sent overboard. Five Ironborn and three Norscans were twitching as though in a seizure, screaming through jaws clamped rigidly shut. Others tried to staunch the flow of blood from their severed limbs, one marauder repeatedly bringing his hands to his empty eye sockets and slashed face and wailing in anguish.
Akkarulf surveyed the captives. Nearly threescore of them, men and women both, all pale with midnight-black hair, arrogance and cruelty stamped on their features.
"What tribe are they, yarrl? I have never seen anyone with ears such as these."
"They aren't men, Akkarulf. These are Naggaroth elves."
"Elves?"
"Aye. Even more vicious than their Alfheim cousins, if you can believe it."
"Elves? But elves are... little, tiny things that live in the woods and-"
"You're thinking of spites, who do indeed serve the forest elves. Also vicious little bastards, though their size- or lack of size, mostly makes them dangerous to the unarmed."
The captives were made to kneel on the deck of their ship, a blade at each one's throat. The Wolf walked up and down the line, inspecting each one, turning their heads or squeezing their arms, and saying a few words that were either answered with contemptuous silence or vicious fury. On coming to the captain, he asked something and answered the reply in a way that caused the Druchii to try to leap up, only to be brought down by a punch from the Wolf.
"What'd he say, yarrl?"
"I asked him the name of the ship. "Morathi's Hand", he says."
The Wolf smirked.
"I said it was ill-named, for given how little she sought to avoid getting penetrated by long hard shafts, they might have more accurately named it after another part of her body entirely."
His inspection completed, the Wolf returned to Akkarulf, who pointed to the elf-ship's ravaged sails. The Wolf's henchman was bringing up a sail from the Silence's spares.
"I don't think we have enough sailcloth to fix that, yarrl.
"As do I. Einarr! það er of lítið!"
The marauder looked at the sail and looked downcast. The Wolf waved him away.
"So do we leave her adrift or sink her?"
"Certainly not. What we are going to do is tow her. Pull down her foremast, I will go see what room there is in the hold."
The Wolf disappeared into the slaver's hold, while Akkarulf called out orders to lash the ships bow to stern and bring down the remaining mast, the prisoners remaining under the Norscans' guard. A mute approached him and made a few signals. When the Wolf emerged he looked quite satisfied.
"We're in luck, roomy cages down there. They must hail from Karond Kar. The ships are secured?"
"Yes yarrl."
"Good."
The Wolf gestured at the captives.
"Gags, blindfolds and chains for all, watch them day and night. Anyone sleeping on guard joins the elves. Take them into the Seaf- the Silence and make sure no one's left aboard Morathi's Holes."
"We aren't storing them in their own ship?"
The Wolf shook his head.
"Amusing as the thought is, do that and the daemons have two targets, each with half the defenders. How long will it take for them to overrun us and cut the ropes, do you think?"
Akkarulf shuddered at the thought of being cast adrift in the border-realm.
"There are no wizards among them, at least, so we can cross without worrying about finding our prize devoured from within. Leave their captain on deck, remove his armor and tie him to the mast. No need for a gag or blinders, the louder he screams the more he'll draw attention to himself... but make sure there's a rag or ten under him, don't want piss all over the deck."
"Yes yarrl."
"Dead and wounded?"
"Seventeen dead or nearly so, fifteen wounded, yarrl. Overboard?"
The Wolf's head jerked towards Akkarulf as though he'd suggested the Wolf's mother had an unnatural affection for billygoats.
"And gift their souls to Mermedus? Certainly not. Finish those too badly injured or poisoned, keep the dead next to the prisoners, we may be able to sell them as well."
Akkarulf paused momentarily, but this seemed as good a time to ask, conscious that any authority he held was only on the Wolf's tolerance.
"The crew want to know if they can use the women until we sell them."
The Wolf seemed to think it over for a minute, then nodded.
"Tell them they may, bearing in mind that I don't know what the buyer will want them for. If he needs their maidenheads, I may have to sell them together with the elves to make up the difference in price."
The giant shrugged.
"Up to them."
"Yes yarrl."
The Wolf looked at the slaver's ravaged sail and nodded approvingly.
"And remind me to congratulate the fleshcrafter. He missed his calling, that one, machines that can pluck a dragon out of the sky and outrange a dark elf ballista are a greater achievement than animating that sack of pus and maggot-meat. Cowardly, yes, but more practical by far."
The Wolf was silent for a moment, then looked straight at Akkarulf.
"The Silence is yours once the Seafang is rebuilt."
"Yes yarrl! Thank you!"
Akkarulf relayed the Wolf's orders. On learning of the conditions he had added, the Ironborn showed less enthusiasm for going into the hold.
The empty slaver securely tied to the Silence's stern and its captain to the mast, the Wolf roared out in the daemon tongue, and both ships surged forward into the border-realm. Moments later, the sea had swallowed every trace of the bloody battle.
Gorion stood before the mast of the Waveblade as it moved cautiously forward, sails furled. The ropes connecting it to the Sprayraider and the Seatalon remained tight, and he could just barely make out the ships in the unnatural fog, the ships behind those completely invisible. Before him the Wolf's seer was still in a holy trance, sitting cross-legged at the prow before a tiny brasero. His staff floated in the air, rotating slowly as the seer muttered in the sacred tongue, the true gods themselves guiding the Iron Fleet to the Isle of Faces.
The staff turned again, the dead raven now pointing slightly starboard. Gorion made a motion, and the punting sailors pushed accordingly, lining up the prow with the staff, then pushing forward again. There was no visible danger, but that was all the more reason to make as little noise as possible.
At last the mists before them darkened and became solid land, a rocky beach and a forest behind it. The ships continued forward even more cautiously, none wanting to run aground just after reaching their destination. Anchors dropped and longboats were made ready.
The seer blinked slowly, breathing in the last of the brasero's fumes, then used his now-motionless staff to stand up.
"What now, Swordeater?"
"Keep men at bolt-throwers, bring rest with armor and axes. And sacrifice."
The seer was in the first longboat to reach the isle. Behind it came the Ironborn, many armored and ready for battle, others in leathers and carrying woodsmen's axes. The few men remaining on the ships took up position behind the scorpions, simultaneously resenting the others for the opportunity to elevate themselves in the true gods' eyes and glad they would not have to face the strange things rumored to haunt the isle.
As soon as he set foot on the beach, Sven pulled a feather out of his bag and let it drop, walking in the direction it pointed once it had landed. Upon the island the mists were less opaque, allowing the Ironborn to see their ships behind them and the forest up ahead.
They moved as quietly as they could through the rocks, which gave way to grass before leading to the widely-spaced trees. The seer led the advance, suddenly holding up a hand and pointing with the other. The Ironborn ducked behind whatever cover they could find and cautiously peeked out.
They saw a pine tree with an unmistakably human face carved into its trunk. Before it stood a green shape, two antlers protruding from either side. The creature lifted both arms, and they saw it had its back to them.
The Swordeater's staff erupted into blue and gold flames, which flew for the Green Man. The greenseer squealed as the fire struck his back, dropping to his knees in agony. The Wolf's seer and the Ironborn surged forward, two of them producing rope to bind and gag him. The flames died as ssiftly as they had sprung into existence.
Once tied up, the Green Man was hauled up to his feet. On facing the Swordeater, his eyes narrowed and he made muffled sounds. Sven chuckled and patted the greenseer's cheek.
"Bring sacrifice. Keep watch."
Two Ironborn came forward, carrying a huge wicker basket. From it they pulled out a muzzled and hobbled wolf, a serpent with its jaws sewn shut, a crow and a raven with broken wings. The greenseer raged and thrashed as the Ironborn dragged him to the tree.
The seer began his incantations in a low voice that became progressively more guttural, until it seemed a hundred demons were speaking through him. Producing a serrated knife from within his robes, he slit the sacrificial animals' throats and pulled them to the cardinal points of the tree, then the greenseer's belly, pulling out his intestines and fixing them to the tree with the same knife. Despite the victim's struggles, the Ironborn carried him three times around the tree, his guts unwinding until they could pull no more. They released him and stepped back. The disemboweled Green Man fell back against the tree, his breathing ragged, but still he made no sound.
The Swordeater's hands glowed and became balls of fire, which he then applied to the tree's face. As it crackled, the leaping shadows made it seem to twist and move, just as it did Sven's scars. Now the greenseer screamed, louder and louder as the flames reached him.
Sven turned to Gorion but said nothing until the cries of the burning man had at last died away, leaving only the roar of the flames.
"Cut down trees good for ship-timber. Burn all others. No man out of sight two others. If see green-priest, try catch, but not chase. Trees come first."
"As you say, Swordeater. Do we cut the planks here or on the beach?"
The sorcerer shook his head.
"Not on island. Too dangerous, if green-priests rally and attack. We float trees, take with us back to castle, cut there."
Gorion looked around. The forest was relatively sparse on its outskirts, all the more easy for his men to get lost in it. In single combat they were undoubtedly superior to the robed priests, but isolated and surrounded...
He had been the first of Euron's Ironborn to accept the true gods, and his faith had been well-rewarded. A tentacle had sprouted from his shoulder in his sleep after days of pain, a long snake of flesh that seemed to have a mind of its own, but in battle responded to his every command, gripping the enemy's neck or sword-arm with fierce strength. He now held no fear of any man in battle save the Wolf, but he was too experienced a sailor to still believe that skill at arms alone won battles. The mightiest fleet was only strong as long as it stayed together. Even the Silence could fall to enemy hands if isolated, as Euron's fate proved.
"And if they attack?"
"Then fight. But fight smart, not charge after ghost like drunk Aesling. Stay near fires, fall back to ships if too strong. We cut one tree at time if need, all others guard. Important thing is get timber back Jarl Strong Wolf."
The air filled with the sounds of axes chopping, trees falling, and wood burning.
Tyrion found Aldma headed back to the priests' quarters soon after midday. He'd been waiting since morning to ensure he'd have the priest without his acolytes or superior to get in the way.
"Your reverence, I have a question, if I may."
"Yes, my child?"
Tyrion looked behind Aldma and himself to ensure they were alone in the corridor, then looked up.
"I would like to know why, if the world is in such danger, your god is the only one who deigned to shift himself and oppose the Wolf' deities."
The Red Priest's demeanor suddenly looked far less friendly, but Tyrion pressed on. The priest was less terrifying than the Wolf, who had also been in service to foreign gods and far more capable of killing him.
"You cannot tell me that the Seven, or the Old Gods, would sit idly by and let themselves be stripped of followers and priests at the hands of an outlander lunatic with no more respect for other gods than he has for men."
Aldma said nothing.
"Is R'hllor intending to let the Wolf kill his rivals for him before coming to our rescue? Will he not need all the help he can get, if it means fighting among each other over the spoils afterwards as men do?"
The Red Priest looked hard at Tyrion, then bowed his head.
"A worthy question, though I do not know that I can give you answers."
Tyrion waited.
"It is difficult to explain to one who is not initiated... Understand that I am giving you a very simplified tale."
"Yes, yes, I'm not asking you to reveal your priesthood's secrets, I just want to know why we can't go to them for help. And don't tell me it's because it's because R'hllor wants you to burn them and their priests. I'm well acquainted with making alliances of convenience with people I'd rather see dead."
Aldma sighed.
"Very well. There is a... complex relation between the strength of a god and the strength of a god's followers, though not in a manner as simple as an army's strength being in its men. Suffice it to say that the Seven were dealt a great blow by the destruction of their holy place here, and the Old Gods are... well, old, and not given to great demonstrations even in the face of destruction."
Tyrion nodded. For some reason he thought of cousin Orson Lannister, the halfwit whose only joy came from crushing beetles with rocks. He too had been an unstoppable and unknowable force to the beetles, but utterly helpless against his fellow men. Tyrion included.
"And the god of the Iron Islanders? With all the dead men Euron's been sending him over the years, he certainly can't be lacking for strength."
"That I cannot say. But in the fires we have not seen him stand against us nor at our side."
Tyrion sighed.
"What of Euron himself? Is he dead, or serving the Wolf? Where is the Wolf at present?"
"I cannot tell you."
The priest sounded apologetic rather than adamant.
"The cunning swine has covered his tracks well, our scrying rituals cannot find him."
Tyrion tried and failed to look surprised.
"How so?"
"The fires we look into to glimpse the will of R'hllor are... tainted, whenever we seek his location. There is a dark flame that interferes with our vision and shields him from our sight."
The Red Priest's fists curled.
"But we will find him nonetheless. The very fact that he is hiding from us means that he believes himself vulnerable."
A guard patrol entered the far end of the corridor. Without a further word, Tyrion and the Red Priest nodded at each other. Aldma headed back to his quarters, Tyrion to the office of the Master of Coin, where he intended to get to work reading the financial reports sent from other kingdoms, get drunk, and find himself an experienced and acrobatic whore.
Possibly in that order.