“Are we ready?” yelled Captain Smetter, with his hands on the big wooden wheel. His crew barked back a handful of incoherent words—could be the wind, or it could be their sailor’s dialect—and the stocky man turned his scarred cheek to Vaenuth and her friends. “Shall we?” he asked, quietly.
“With haste,” Vaenuth said. The drum began to beat, and the oars began to churn the waters alongside the ship’s sides. She turned away from the helm, and looked at Tagg, who leaned nearby on the railing of the ship. He was pale, but he was smiling. “You good?” she asked.
Tagg nodded. He had been on his feet for two weeks, making his first foray out of the sickbed on the eve of the New Year. He wasn’t up to fighting condition yet, but he had begun a slow jog three days earlier and had told Vaenuth then that he would ready to go at the beginning of this week. Now The Flying Hound ploughed through the red waters of Raider’s Bay as they drifted away from the harbour of Soros.
“Do you blame me?” Vaenuth asked, sitting down on the railing.
Tagg blinked. “Not even a little,” he said. “It was my fault for letting that rat get me with his little fang. Fangs can rip out a good chunk of flesh, I learned.” He gingerly rotated his arm; though he was wearing a loose blue tunic, Vaenuth vividly remembered the bloody mess in the healer’s tray, the pound of sickly flesh they had taken from her friend.
“Let’s not do it again,” Vaenuth said.
Pressip, Krebin, and Arloe had already marched off the half deck, down to the main. Tagg muttered, “Give me a few days before I start your training again, huh?”
Vaenuth smiled. She looked down at the green blouse she was wearing still, and tore it off, buttons popping every which way. “Let the city of sorrows keep it,” she said, and tossed the garment into the salty red waves. She had worn the blasted thing for weeks now, and even under the humid clouds, the contrast felt a little cooler than she expected. Her bare skin bristled with chill bumps, but she flexed her muscles. “See,” she said to her friend, with a wink. “I haven’t stopped my training, just because you got bit by a mouse.”
“Ho now,” he muttered, “Don’t be teasing me. It took a lot of strength not to succumb to—”
“Mhm,” Vaenuth said, and showed him her back tattoos as she walked away. “Hey, Pressip, sparring?” she asked. She found her pack where she had left it, against the flat-door to the under deck. It took her only a moment to wrap her old white binding around her breasts and snatch up two wooden blades.
The hunter came running, while his subordinates continued their game of dice without her. They began with a casual bout, just to get warmed up. No poking, not real hitting. Just prancing around with sticks.
After a few rounds, Vaenuth assumed a more formal stance, and they began a real duel. Pressip was good, but Vae had learned from the best. Tagg looked on in mirth as Vaenuth played with Pressip. She thrust and parried, slashed and dodged. At one point, while Pressip was hacking his blade far too wide of her left side, she gave him a wink, then punched him in the gut with her off hand. It was enough to distract him and she smacked the wooden sparring sword off his hamstring. He cried out in surprise and fell to his other knee. In a real fight, he would be done walking with an opening that wide. No clinic in Soros would patch him up—they’d amputate or he’d limp on a cane the rest of his life.
“Good one,” Pressip mumbled, as he stood up. He readied his stance, and they went back to sparring. Tap, prod, slash. Clack, clack, clack.
Vaenuth was frowning. Yeah, she thought, Good one. This was who she was, a blade that ruined people’s lives. She smashed at Pressip’s defences, jarring his arm with her strength. She had pretended to be a caravan leader, a business woman. Maybe she could be that, but not right now. Right now the life in Numa’nakres felt like a mummer’s performance. Vaenuth was an angry whore. Men had paid to plough her, only to lose their wives and families for one smiling moment of ecstasy. She spun around her opponent, clutching her sparring stick behind her, across the enemy’s neck. She had been a fix for some, a need for others, a release for all… she would be the ultimate release for one man, the man who had made her into this. She would send his soul out into the abyss, and ruin his life for good. Because that’s what I am…, she sneered.
“Enough!” Tagg shouted. He grabbed hold of Vaenuth’s arm and slapped her wrist hard enough her finger’s released their white-knuckled clutch on the sword. She stumbled with the sudden relax of weight, collided with Tagg’s torso, and they tumbled to the wooden deck with a curse from the latter.
Behind her, Pressip gasped for air, sucking in desperately. She had almost killed him, without realizing. “Sorry for weighing you down in Soros,” Tagg mumbled, as she climbed off of him. The recovering man was shaken, but alright.
“No,” Vaenuth said, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. I lost track of… I’m sorry.”
Pressip shook his head. “It’s fine,” he hissed. “I’m fine.” He paced away, winded, and the watching crew of The Flying Hound gradually went back to their work.
Vaenuth took a deep breath and stepped away from her friends. “Spirits,” she mumbled, and exhaled. She would have killed Pressip without realizing it… Was she too focused on her task? Or just enough?
Perhaps more importantly, would the caravan leader survive releasing her old slaver from this grey life? She longed to walk the sands of the Expanse again, to hiss with the serpent folk and dine on the finest dead animals. She longed to be free of this human world.