“Twelve,” said Anzir quietly, and Joron tore his eyes from the windspire and back to what she talked of: the women and men in the clearing.
“I see only seven,” he whispered.
“Five archers hide around the edges, one in the gion over there.” She pointed up and Joron saw the figure crouched on a stalk. “Two are over there to landward and two more to seaward.”
“How did they know we were coming here?” said Joron, more to himself than to Anzir.
Nevertheless she answered.
“I do not think there is much else on this isle we could be interested in.” She did not look at him, only stared into the clearing. “And, no disrespect meant, Deckkeeper, but you have a gullaime on your back, which may be a clue.” Was there a flash of humour there? He was unsure as she spoke almost in a monotone.
“Do you have any ideas for us to take this place, Anzir?”
“Were I in charge, I would have a bow trained on the one in the tree and send some round to take out those in the bushes as quietly as possible.”
“Can it be done silently?” said Joron.
Anzir dug a finger into the dirt.
“Possibly not,” she said. “I could, but the rest, they are not trained in death the way I am.” They watched a moment longer, and then Joron tugged on Anzir’s arm, pulling her back to where the rest waited.
“Farys,” he said, “Anzir will show you where two raiders hide in the forest. Take who you wish and circle round behind them. Anzir will do the same. Hasrin.” He barely believed he was about to make his next request of this woman, who was friends with Cwell and had once been a deckkeeper. “You were once deckkeeper.” He took a crossbow from where it hung on his jacket. “You will know the use of this.”
She nodded, looking at him as if he prepared some trap for her, but took the crossbow.
“I was ranked the best shot in the fleet, once,” she said.
“Well” – he held out four bolts – “there is a man in the gion to the landward side of the windspire. You are to shoot him down.” Hasrin narrowed her eyes at him, then nodded and took the bolts. “The rest of you, string your bows and be ready to shoot those in the clearing at my signal.”
“What will the signal be?” said Farys.
“When I say ‘hello’.”
“D’keeper,” said Anzir, “if any of us fails or Hasrin misses the fellow in the gion, you will be dead.”
“That would be unfortunate,” said Joron, “so I am ordering no one to fail or miss.” Grim smiles met his words. “Now I shall count to two hundred. That should give everyone time to get in place and for me to remove the gullaime from my back.”
It seemed to Joron, as he lay the gullaime beneath a vine and crouched in the undergrowth at the edge of the clearing, that his count of two hundred took an impossibly long time. It was not a comfortable time either as the same questions his little crew had asked him: What if they miss? What if they fail? spun round and round in his head and try as he might he could not put those thoughts in harbour, safe away from worry. Another joined them as he counted down – Why did I choose Hasrin? – and the possibility of death and how close he stood to it became more real. Hasrin was once a deckkeeper, and nothing is more accurate than a crossbow. He put one hand on a varisk vine, grasping the sinewy stem as hard as he could to still his shaking. What if she does not shoot? What if she misses on purpose?
At the moment he reached one hundred and ninety he muttered to himself, “Mother watch over your son.” Then he stood and walked until he was among the thick foliage at the edge of the clearing.
“I am looking for the windspire,” he said, and no one was more surprised than Joron that his voice did not waver or break. Then he took two steps forward out of the thick varisk. “Am I in the right place?”
Silence.
As if every woman and man and creature of the forest stopped what they were doing to look at this fellow who had stepped out and asked so politely where he was of those who would kill him. And though it was only a moment, the smallest sliver of time, barely a few grains of sand through a glass, it was long enough for Joron to think many things.
I should not have chosen Hasrin.
I should have had a better plan.
I will die here, foolishly, and my father will turn from me at the bonefire.
“Hello?” he said.
The arrows flew.
A bolt flew into the tall gion, and a body fell like ungainly fruit. From either side of the clearing came grunts and rustling as his crew attacked the hidden archers. Arrows cut into the seven in the clearing. Three fell, one was wounded. The three who remained ran at Joron, who found himself frozen, riveted to the spot as they came at him, weapons raised.
More arrows, and it was done. No one ever near enough to Joron to spit on him, never mind cut him, and the air which he had been holding in his lungs was once more moving in and out of his chest. Anzir strode across the clearing. Blood spattered her clothes, and he wondered if she would call him on his cowardice.
“That was brave,” she said.
“Brave?”
“To stand unmoving and give the archers a second shot while your enemy ran at you. Few have the tits on them for that.”
“Ey,” replied Joron and wondered if she mocked him – if so he could not tell. “Well, it was not pleasant and I would rather not do it again. Now, let us get the gullaime to the spire.” Anzir nodded and they fetched the creature – so light in Joron’s arms. Anzir led the way back to the spire, the curnow in her hand dripping blood with every step. Joron found himself transfixed by the blood, having to shake his head to clear it of the sight.
Nearer to the spire, its song was louder. Joron knelt with the gullaime in his arms, not knowing what to do. Surely the windtalker could feel the spire now? He not only heard the song with his ears but felt it vibrate through his whole body. It was like he was a rope and the windspire was the wind howling past, making his body sing against his wishes when he was not ready for song. He expected something from the gullaime but did not know what. Some response. Would it raise its head and sing back to the spire? But the creature only lay limp in his arms.
“I think the gullaime must be touching it, D’keeper.” Farys had joined them at the windspire. “That was what old Garriya told me.”
“She knew what we did here?”
Farys shook her head.
“No, she just talks to me sometimes. Tells me stories, the sort a mother would, if I’d ever had one. In one story she said a gullaime has to touch the spire.”
“There is a something like a cave here,” said Anzir, “at the bottom of the spire.”
Joron stood and carried the gullaime around to where there was an opening in the base of the spire. Here the song was even stronger, so loud it caused Joron pain, a jangling of his nerves. And he knew then, though he did not know how, that the gullaime must be placed inside if it was to wake. He knew this the same way he knew he was the only one who could do this. The crew may leave gifts for the gullaime, venerate it in their own way even, but they would not touch it, so this was his task. And even if some other had come forward, offered to take his burden, Joron would not have given it up to them. So despite the pain-growing-to-agony that being so near the spire brought him, he forced himself forward, crouched down to place the gullaime in the opening. To go into the noise was like dragging himself forward into a gale. Every movement required an almost inhuman effort, but the moment the gullaime touched the floor of the cave, the sounds and the pain stopped.