Lord of the Isles by David Drake Page B

son lie down!”
    â€œI’m all right, ” Garric said. He bent forward, putting his weight over his feet so that he could stand up—or try to. His head spun momentarily, but his vision didn’t blur and his breathing was normal after it caught the first time.
    â€œYou may be tough, boy,” Nonnus said quietly, “but the
seawolves were tougher yet and they’re dead now. Don’t overdo.”
    Garric stood, letting his left leg do all the work of raising his body. The hermit’s arm kept minuscule contact with his shoulders, not helping him rise but assuring him that he wouldn’t be permitted to fall down.
    â€œShould he be doing that?” Reise asked Nonnus. Perhaps by instinct he stepped between his wife and Garric.
    Garric let the normal load shift onto his right foot. He still felt no pain, though pressure throbbed from the calf through his lower body in quick pulses like a shutter rattling in a gust of wind.
    â€œOf course he shouldn’t be doing that!” Lora said. “He’s going to lose his leg, that’s what he’s going to do, and you’re going to let it happen!”
    â€œIf he can move,” Nonnus said, ignoring Lora completely, “then that would be good for him and the wound both. More people have rotted lying in a bed than the spear killed the first time. But I didn’t expect to see anyone here walk with injuries like that.”
    â€œThere’s men on Haft, hermit,” Reise snapped. “And on Ornifal too, if it comes to that.”
    Nonnus nodded. “Your pardon,” he said. The heavy knife hanging in its sheath on his belt wobbled as his stance changed slightly. “Pride is a worse sin than anger, I’m afraid, because it slips in unnoticed so easily.”
    â€œIf there’s something coming,” Garric said, “I want to see what it is.”
    He raised his right foot over the lip of the truckle bed and stepped down. The injured limb held his weight. He took another step; Nonnus followed at his side.
    â€œI’ll help him,” Reise said curtly. He set the soup and spoon on the edge of the bar and walked to his son’s side. Lora turned and stamped upstairs, her back stiff.
    Garric continued to move toward the door, putting one foot after the other. He was frightened but he felt he had to learn.
    He had to learn whether the thing the wizard sensed coming from the sea was the hooded figure of his nightmare.

10
    S harina stood at the edge of the surf, staring as the huge ship maneuvered in the shallows. It looked more like a building which floated offshore than something intended for the sea. The whole community had turned out to watch, and the lone vessel dwarfed them.
    The ship’s sides were bright crimson; Katchin had painted his window sashes that color, but no one in the borough had ever seen it applied over so broad a surface. More than fifty oars stroked from either side, bringing the vessel’s curved stern shoreward for beaching; the blades quivered like the fins of an injured fish. Empty ports indicated that the ship was intended to have nearly twice as many oars as she did at present.
    There were other signs of storm damage, even to eyes as inexpert as Sharina’s were. The crew had managed to get the mast and yard down and lash them on the raised deck running the length of the vessel’s centerline, but tatters of what had been the sail fluttered from the cordage. In several places bright yellow splinters stood out from the brown paint covering the deck railing; waves had carried pieces away. Seen end-on, the vessel canted noticeably to starboard, suggesting damage to the hull beneath the waterline.
    The rowers began to stroke in unison, backing the ship toward the beach. Water trailed like strings of jewels from the rising oarblades. Villagers gasped in wonder at the sight.
    Sharina was alone, or as much alone as one could be in a crowd that included everyone she