Ship’s trousers, the thick cotton sort, dyed a dark red. A cold white shirt with too many buttons. Thick socks that hugged his damp feet. A pair of black leather boots with waxy laces. A cloak, the sort he liked, with a low black hood and pockets upon pockets. Farden put it all on.
He discovered a razor underneath the pile of clothes. It was the cut-throat kind, with an ivory handle. It had a curly T carved into its handle. Tyrfing’s. Farden twiddled it around in his fingers while his other hand ran around his face and neck, pulling at the wiry strands and long locks. Farden pulled a face. A clean start needed a clean shave. It was a small decision, but, like ants, they often carried the most weight.
Farden cast about for a mirror, grimacing at the thought of facing his reflection again, but thankfully he found himself without. He used his towel to dry his face and then began to carve away the thick black hair that had infested his jaw and cheeks. Whiskers teetered on his back-legs, watching the wisps of black hair fall to the wood. Farden winced with every tug of the blade. He’d imagined a blacksmith, of all people, would have kept his razor sharp.
It took half an hour of scraping and grunting, but in the end he got every last hair his calloused fingers could find. He ran his hands around his sore, reddened face and pulled a strange smile. He didn’t need a mirror to know it looked better.
After strapping his Scalussen greaves over his trousers, leaving the gauntlets for Whiskers to curl up in, Farden left his room and headed for the top deck.
Farden poked his head out of the hatch and was rewarded with a faceful of wind, sharp as glass, fresh as ice, and salt on the lips. He felt it swirl around his shaven skin and freed ears, rolling across his bare hands and between his fingers. It was glorious, as though it was the first wind he had ever tasted on his skin. Farden stepped higher on the step and felt it tug at his clothes.
It was then that he heard the clapping of a crowd somewhere behind him, no doubt on the aftcastle. A few cheers went up. Farden slowly picked a path through the ropes and hatches and bustling sailors, intent on seeing what all the fuss was about.
Nuka was there, leaning gently on the wheel. He was staring up into the pure blue sky, watching the flaming mess of a bottle tumble out of it and land with a hiss in the frothing wake of his ship. A group of mages stood at the balcony. A gaggle of officers clustered behind them, surreptitiously swapping bets of tack biscuits and dribbles of coin. At the back a row of soldiers, dressed in their sea-blue armour, looked on.
Farden wove his way through their lines and found Tyrfing standing at the railing with the mages. He was brandishing a brown glass bottle swathed in sailcloth.
‘Ready?’ he asked the Written to his left, a skinny woman with a shock of white hair and pink eyes. Farden couldn’t help but recognise her from somewhere. The Written nodded, and held her hands out flat, as if spreading them across an invisible tabletop.
‘Go,’ she muttered, deep in concentration.
Tyrfing let the bottle lie loosely in his palm. The wind twirled between his fingers, growing stronger and stronger until it was snatched up and away, flying high and far above them.
‘Njord, it’s too high,’ one of the officers tutted, flicking a coin to his mate.
‘Stay those greedy fingers, lads and ladies. I’ve seen this trick before,’ muttered Nuka, but still loud enough for them all to hear. There was something in his tone that reverberated certainty. The coin and biscuits froze in mid-air.
Nuka was right of course. He had seen this mage in action before. The snow-haired woman jabbed her hand at the sea, like a spear, and twisted it. Fifty yards from the wake of the ship, a wave broke in two, right down its centre. One half foamed and spat and bubbled as it curled upwards. The Written clenched her fingers and the column of water swiped the bottle
He discovered a razor underneath the pile of clothes. It was the cut-throat kind, with an ivory handle. It had a curly T carved into its handle. Tyrfing’s. Farden twiddled it around in his fingers while his other hand ran around his face and neck, pulling at the wiry strands and long locks. Farden pulled a face. A clean start needed a clean shave. It was a small decision, but, like ants, they often carried the most weight.
Farden cast about for a mirror, grimacing at the thought of facing his reflection again, but thankfully he found himself without. He used his towel to dry his face and then began to carve away the thick black hair that had infested his jaw and cheeks. Whiskers teetered on his back-legs, watching the wisps of black hair fall to the wood. Farden winced with every tug of the blade. He’d imagined a blacksmith, of all people, would have kept his razor sharp.
It took half an hour of scraping and grunting, but in the end he got every last hair his calloused fingers could find. He ran his hands around his sore, reddened face and pulled a strange smile. He didn’t need a mirror to know it looked better.
After strapping his Scalussen greaves over his trousers, leaving the gauntlets for Whiskers to curl up in, Farden left his room and headed for the top deck.
Farden poked his head out of the hatch and was rewarded with a faceful of wind, sharp as glass, fresh as ice, and salt on the lips. He felt it swirl around his shaven skin and freed ears, rolling across his bare hands and between his fingers. It was glorious, as though it was the first wind he had ever tasted on his skin. Farden stepped higher on the step and felt it tug at his clothes.
It was then that he heard the clapping of a crowd somewhere behind him, no doubt on the aftcastle. A few cheers went up. Farden slowly picked a path through the ropes and hatches and bustling sailors, intent on seeing what all the fuss was about.
Nuka was there, leaning gently on the wheel. He was staring up into the pure blue sky, watching the flaming mess of a bottle tumble out of it and land with a hiss in the frothing wake of his ship. A group of mages stood at the balcony. A gaggle of officers clustered behind them, surreptitiously swapping bets of tack biscuits and dribbles of coin. At the back a row of soldiers, dressed in their sea-blue armour, looked on.
Farden wove his way through their lines and found Tyrfing standing at the railing with the mages. He was brandishing a brown glass bottle swathed in sailcloth.
‘Ready?’ he asked the Written to his left, a skinny woman with a shock of white hair and pink eyes. Farden couldn’t help but recognise her from somewhere. The Written nodded, and held her hands out flat, as if spreading them across an invisible tabletop.
‘Go,’ she muttered, deep in concentration.
Tyrfing let the bottle lie loosely in his palm. The wind twirled between his fingers, growing stronger and stronger until it was snatched up and away, flying high and far above them.
‘Njord, it’s too high,’ one of the officers tutted, flicking a coin to his mate.
‘Stay those greedy fingers, lads and ladies. I’ve seen this trick before,’ muttered Nuka, but still loud enough for them all to hear. There was something in his tone that reverberated certainty. The coin and biscuits froze in mid-air.
Nuka was right of course. He had seen this mage in action before. The snow-haired woman jabbed her hand at the sea, like a spear, and twisted it. Fifty yards from the wake of the ship, a wave broke in two, right down its centre. One half foamed and spat and bubbled as it curled upwards. The Written clenched her fingers and the column of water swiped the bottle
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