Lenk spared a glancing frown for the men below. Some were veterans, having seen the deaths of comrades before, though likely none so gruesome. Most were young men who’d only seen elders pass away in their sleep. He hesitated at the top of the helm, his gaze lingering upon a young man dragging one of the dead from the deck.
A part of him wanted to turn back around, put a hand on the young man’s shoulder and move him below where Asper tended to the wounded, mortally or otherwise. The sailor was possibly the same age as Lenk. Hands on shoulders should be wrinkled, he thought, weathered with age and experience, broad from embracing children and wives. Young hands, calloused hands, were not meant to be placed on shoulders.
Old hands grip people. Young hands grip swords.
His grandfather had told him that once. His grandfather’s hands had been young to the day he died. He blinked, drew in a deep breath. Something in his mind stirred: the roar of fire, shadows dancing against sheets of orange, people falling beneath flashes of silver, smiles that twisted into screams. His grandfather . . .
No. He commanded himself to force the images from his mind. Not today. Not now.
He turned his back on the deck. There were plenty of men with weathered, wrinkled hands on the ship. His still gripped a sword.
At the ship’s impressive wheel stood Captain Argaol, looking decidedly less fazed than he should have with dead men on his deck. His dark features were stern, eyes fixed straight ahead, not even looking at the young man. His only movement was to reach down and smooth the sash of commendation medals he had earned from his various charters.
His mate, Sebast, a man who had spent so much time in the sun that he had both the appearance and smell of jerked beef, dutifully moved aside as Lenk stepped onto the quarterdeck. He sniffed, dipped a mop into a wooden bucket and proceeded to wipe away the blood that had been spilled on the ship’s timbers as casually as if he were wiping away the lunch that Lenk had spilled some days earlier.
Lenk gave him a cursory nod before stepping up to the captain’s side.
‘Well, we did it.’ His voice sounded alien to his own ears.
‘Did what?’ The captain’s voice seemed much deeper than it should have, given his size. The man stood only a little taller than Lenk, his height perhaps diminished due to the lack of hair upon his head.
‘Drove off the pirates.’
‘And?’
‘I thought you’d like to know.’
‘I can see the whole Gods-cursed ship from up here, boy. You think I didn’t see that?’ He glanced at the young man with a sneer. ‘What? You wanted some credit for breaking the chain? Smart move there - wish you’d thought of it early enough to spare my men.’
‘It was a fight,’ Lenk replied coldly. ‘People die.’
‘How fortunate we have you to be so casually nonchalant about it. I’ve been in this business awhile, boy. I know what happens.’
‘Then you’ll also know to choose your insults carefully. Many more of your men would have died if not for us.’ The young man gestured to the deck. ‘Or did you not see how many pirates we killed?’
‘Oh, I saw,’ the captain replied, seething. ‘I also saw you making eyes at the escape vessel while you were down there.’ He levelled an accusing finger. ‘You’d have run like the heathens you are and left the rest of us to die if you could have.’ He grunted and glowered at his first mate. ‘What’d I tell you about taking adventurers aboard?’
‘Bad idea,’ Sebast replied without looking up. ‘Bad philosophically, bad practically. Still, they did undoubtedly save about as many as they killed, Captain. Perhaps a little gratitude wouldn’t be inappropriate?’
‘I’m grateful enough that the heathen scum didn’t decide to slaughter us to try and curry favour with the Cragscum, aye,’ the captain agreed.
The adventurer reputation for opportune betrayal was not unknown to Lenk, but he still took slight offence at Argaol’s accusation. It wasn’t as though he had seriously considered turning on the crew.
Not until now, anyway.
‘So, you’ll forgive me if I’m not at the pinnacle of appreciativeness’ Argaol continued, scowling at the young man. ‘And you’ll forgive me for saying that if you ever so much as think of fleeing and leaving my men without escape again, I’ll chop you up and serve you in the mess.’