in the jagged piece of glass still sticking straight through the man’s neck. Why hadn’t it killed the bastard? he wondered, as he reached for his dagger and waited for a chance to do just that.
Stanko had pulled his body half over when an oar rose out of its lock and the blade end was thrust forward. Not into the man’s face. Not to smash his grip on the wood. Straight into the glass that protruded from his neck.
‘And that’s for calling me a bloody German,’ John Grant cried.
It was surprising that the pirate had lived so long. It didn’t take much movement of the glass to sever the artery, so close it must have been. Stanko looked as if he wanted to say something. But he didn’t. Just lost his grip and sank slowly back into reddening water.
Gregoras was not so stunned that he did not leap forward to balance the boat again. When he finally did grab and load his crossbow, he did not shoot. The five left on the dock had no weapons raised, showed no desire for a swim. They were all just staring at the floating body of their former chief.
One at each oar, Gregoras and Grant steered their vessel between the tied-up fishing smacks. Soon they were clear of them and nosing into the choppy waters at the edge of the harbour mouth. Free of the shelter of the hilly island, the wind was blowing from behind them, bobbling them about. Without talk, the two men got the sail up, and Gregoras was relieved to see that Grant appeared to know more about it than he did. In fact, he soon left him to it and, finding that his legs were a little wobbly, sat down.
Something poked into his thigh. He reached, discovered the Scotsman’s satchel and, sticking from it, a crossbow quarrel.
He jerked it out. Its steel tip was red with congealing blood, but it was the flights that made him stare harder. For they were not thin pieces of wood, slotted into curved grooves, as was most common. These were of feather – heron’s, he thought, by their grey-blue tips. Feather flights had to be glued on, and the helix that would spin the bolt in flight required a fine judgement of both eye and finger in the making. He knew because it was a style of bolt he would fashion himself, before a campaign began, and save for a special shot. Once used up, he rarely had time to make more, would revert to their easily acquired, wood-fletched cousins. He’d thought such skill beyond a pirate’s patience, to be sure.
He shivered, glanced back … but Korcula was lost to night. And so was the bowman, who, he decided, they’d been lucky to survive.
– SEVEN –
Rendezvous
John Grant leaned upon the railing, doing what most of the men aboard were doing – trying to disperse with prayer the mist that had trapped them for three days. The breath of Circe, it was called. The witch’s exhalation blinded ships like theirs, luring them onto the rocks.
He licked his lips, as ever craving more than the wine that had passed over them on their three-week voyage – by skiff, fishing boat and, at last, this carrack – from Korcula. Something stronger might fill the void he felt whenever he thought of what was being asked of him. He was a good engineer, a builder-up and knocker-down of stone. A delver beneath the earth. He could wield a sword, if he must. Yet his life had been saved for quite a different skill he was rumoured to possess.
Anger came with the fear. The skill was to do with an ancient weapon of war. One that had saved the city of Constantinople more than once from Islam’s assault. But it was a Greek invention. It was named for them. So why, by the Pope’s shrivelled balls, did the Greeks need a Scotsman to rediscover it for them?
Grant sighed. Like the pirates, it was the chemist’s art his new patrons required. As with a distillation of fruit or barley, there were elements to be mixed in precise measures to achieve the required effect. It was the proportion of those elements that had been lost. The formula. It was said that an angel
Stanko had pulled his body half over when an oar rose out of its lock and the blade end was thrust forward. Not into the man’s face. Not to smash his grip on the wood. Straight into the glass that protruded from his neck.
‘And that’s for calling me a bloody German,’ John Grant cried.
It was surprising that the pirate had lived so long. It didn’t take much movement of the glass to sever the artery, so close it must have been. Stanko looked as if he wanted to say something. But he didn’t. Just lost his grip and sank slowly back into reddening water.
Gregoras was not so stunned that he did not leap forward to balance the boat again. When he finally did grab and load his crossbow, he did not shoot. The five left on the dock had no weapons raised, showed no desire for a swim. They were all just staring at the floating body of their former chief.
One at each oar, Gregoras and Grant steered their vessel between the tied-up fishing smacks. Soon they were clear of them and nosing into the choppy waters at the edge of the harbour mouth. Free of the shelter of the hilly island, the wind was blowing from behind them, bobbling them about. Without talk, the two men got the sail up, and Gregoras was relieved to see that Grant appeared to know more about it than he did. In fact, he soon left him to it and, finding that his legs were a little wobbly, sat down.
Something poked into his thigh. He reached, discovered the Scotsman’s satchel and, sticking from it, a crossbow quarrel.
He jerked it out. Its steel tip was red with congealing blood, but it was the flights that made him stare harder. For they were not thin pieces of wood, slotted into curved grooves, as was most common. These were of feather – heron’s, he thought, by their grey-blue tips. Feather flights had to be glued on, and the helix that would spin the bolt in flight required a fine judgement of both eye and finger in the making. He knew because it was a style of bolt he would fashion himself, before a campaign began, and save for a special shot. Once used up, he rarely had time to make more, would revert to their easily acquired, wood-fletched cousins. He’d thought such skill beyond a pirate’s patience, to be sure.
He shivered, glanced back … but Korcula was lost to night. And so was the bowman, who, he decided, they’d been lucky to survive.
– SEVEN –
Rendezvous
John Grant leaned upon the railing, doing what most of the men aboard were doing – trying to disperse with prayer the mist that had trapped them for three days. The breath of Circe, it was called. The witch’s exhalation blinded ships like theirs, luring them onto the rocks.
He licked his lips, as ever craving more than the wine that had passed over them on their three-week voyage – by skiff, fishing boat and, at last, this carrack – from Korcula. Something stronger might fill the void he felt whenever he thought of what was being asked of him. He was a good engineer, a builder-up and knocker-down of stone. A delver beneath the earth. He could wield a sword, if he must. Yet his life had been saved for quite a different skill he was rumoured to possess.
Anger came with the fear. The skill was to do with an ancient weapon of war. One that had saved the city of Constantinople more than once from Islam’s assault. But it was a Greek invention. It was named for them. So why, by the Pope’s shrivelled balls, did the Greeks need a Scotsman to rediscover it for them?
Grant sighed. Like the pirates, it was the chemist’s art his new patrons required. As with a distillation of fruit or barley, there were elements to be mixed in precise measures to achieve the required effect. It was the proportion of those elements that had been lost. The formula. It was said that an angel
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