The Last Knut of Linsey Island

Karel was sculling his coracle from buoy to buoy in the mussel beds when the Fowkers came. He was oblivious to their approach in the sea fog, his attention on the half-dozen ropes encrusted with blue-black shells that nestled between his feet. It was a good haul, more than enough for the Portioners' tithe, and he would soon be done for the day, once the slack tide turned to carry him back to the shore. He laid the paddle across his lap and stretched out the harvester over the side. The precious iron hook caught first time and Karel levered the shaft slowly, careful not to capsize the coracle as he heaved against the weight.

The end of the rope lifted over the rim, water dripping like pearls back into the glassy sea, and he let the drips cease before flicking the catch inboard.

Then he saw it.

A carved figurehead loomed from the mist as the Fowker ship glided in, barely rippling the water at its bow. Karel fumbled in panic as he put the paddle into the water and frantically turned the blade. His heart beat like a giant drum as he strove to evade the raiders, but for all its manoeuvrability, the coracle was not a swift craft. He was barely under way before he heard a shout behind him. The Fowkers had spotted him, and a score of oars splashed into the water and bit deep. Karel could hear the the foreign coxswain as he called the rowers' beat. They were gaining on him, and still the shore was shrouded in mist. Dodging through the buoys where his earlier harvesting had cleared a path, he had one hope of escape.

The clatter of wood on wood brought a brief smile to his face, and the coxswain's cursing confirmed his hopes. The deep-biting oars of the Fowkers were battering at buoys and snagging the mussel-ropes. He turned his paddle in elegant figure of eight strokes, but knew he could only make slow headway as the raiders cleared their oars of the fouling ropes. “Hup, hup, hup”, he heard once more, a faster beat, and Karel knew the coxswain had ordered shallow strokes, barely scraping the limpid surface.

Relief surged through him as he spied a darker mass ahead. Surely he must be reaching the mud flats? He shouted a warning, “Fowkers! Fowkers!” If only he could alert the villagers and the Portioner's men, bring them to the shore, perhaps, perhaps...

His hopes were dashed, though. When the dark mass resolved through the mist, Karel saw a second ship ahead. He was trapped between two raiders, his flight over.

The crowd of women swarmed around the Portioners' Hall, banging their pots and pans together, their angry yells all but drowned in the din of the clanging metalware. Inside, the Portion Council tried to conduct their deliberations, but the noise was a distraction if not a complete impediment.

“What do they want?” snarled Masterportioner Albret, although he knew the answer well enough. “What do they expect?”

“They want to go home, m'lud,” replied Jax, unnecessarily. Jax was the Council Clerk, a diffident young man more at ease recording the deeds and decisions of others than putting forth his own thoughts. He even looked like a reed, trembling and wind blown, yet somehow sure-footed in the shifting tides of Council affairs.

“I know that, you fool! We all know that. And we all know what will happen if they do, and they like that even less.”

Albret glowered around the table. It was stacked with hand-drawn maps, lists of names and places, harvest tallies and tithing receipts. Not one of the Councillors would meet his gaze, not that he could blame them. Stuck between the devil and the deep blue sea, whatever they decided would be wrong. The Portioning always upset someone. Sometimes it upset everyone, Albret included.

A heavy-set man in his early fifties, Albret was young for a Masterportioner, his black hair and beard barely speckled with grey. The Council had needed a firm hand at the helm following his predecessor's untimely and messy demise. He had been weak, irresolute in the face of the crisis brought about by the Red Sky Winter. Now, nearly two decades on, the effects of that three-year spell of cold and dark were still reverberating around Linsey Island. The Portioning was always a cruel calculation, and an oversized cohort of youths due to reach maturity loomed like a tidal wave on the horizon. It was never easy to redivide the holdings, assign families to new villages. That's why the Council was only ever drawn from the Brother and Sister Houses, men and women with no children of their own to favour.

Albret banged his meaty fist to the table. “A curse on this infernal racket! Call the militia. I want the streets cleared. And bring that madwife Meryn in here. She's the ringleader. Let's see if we can talk some sense into her stubborn head.”

The council chamber was quiet by the time the guards returned with Meryn, a midwife despite the common slur uttered by Albret earlier. Like the turning tide, Albret showed a gentler face to the young woman standing before him.

“Please be seated, goodwife, and explain what you hope to achieve with all this noise and fury,” he said, waving his left hand in airy circles.

“I don't believe you don't know,” countered Meryn, still bristling at the rough treatment meted out by the militia.

“Humour us. Perhaps we have misjudged you with our assumptions.”

Meryn tried not to roll her eyes at this. “Maybe you have; maybe you have misjudged us with this ridiculous policy. The women simply want to go back home. The hostels and lodges are crowded, the children are going spare, and we can all see that the tasks you've allotted are nothing but makework when we have real work going undone back in our own villages. Tell us the truth. Whatever reason you have for bringing us here, it is not what you told us.”

“Really? And what do you imagine our reasoning was?” He turned an amused smile around the group of twenty men and women who constituted the Portion Council. His condescension was clear in his expression. 'See what foolish children we must govern,' it seemed to say.

“I think that's for the Council to explain. I wouldn't want to misjudge you with assumptions,” the midwife retorted.

Albret heaved a sigh. “Very well. I'm sure you are a devout woman, but you are not privy to the census returns, are you? Soon the Winterborn will be coming of age, and you have no idea how numerous they are. We have placed great faith in the midwives and herbwives, but still families grow. If only your women could breed land the way they breed babies!”

“I'm sure even a Brother knows the facts, my lord. The women don't do it alone.”

“That's why they have been separated from their menfolk,” said Albret, exasperation in his voice. “Each Parish takes its turn, year and year about. We know it's not popular, but the figures show it was working, until you whistled up this storm! What would you have us do? Go back to culling the first-born? Pick another war with the Umbran Isles so your sons can be slaughtered? Sell your daughters to the slavers? What sacrifice do you propose?”

Meryn glanced at the silent, robed figure seated beside Albret. “Do your duty to the Gods, perhaps? Until we atone for our forefathers' sin, the waves will keep eating away our land. Find a worthy Knut, one who can fulfil the prophecy.”

When Karel regained consciousness the throbbing of his head made him wince. The sky was bright, too bright now the fog had burnt away, and he scrunched his eyes tight to ease the pain. His hands were bound behind him, rough hemp cutting into his wrists. Venturing a peek, he peered through slitted eyelids to find a hulking giant of a Fowker standing guard over him. Looking around he could see another four of the sleek, shallow-draughted raiding ships alongside the one on which he was held captive. Five ships; a hundred men at least, he reckoned. The village wouldn't stand a chance, whether or not they had heard his warning shout. Even the Portioner's squadron, in the village conducting their tithing rounds, would be hard-pressed by such a band.

He oriented himself and glanced ashore. There were bodies at the water's edge, and bile rose in his throat. Further along, a dejected looking group of captives were surrounded by spear-wielding Fowkers, and in the distance a plume of smoke roiled, thick and dirty from burning thatch. Racks of sun-dried jellyfish glowed softly in the morning sun, like a ghostly shieldwall, ephemeral and useless.

Karel watched on, impotent as the raiders prodded the captives to their feet, and marched them through the shallows towards the waiting boats, five or six to each one. They were all young, like Karel. When they were brought on board, Jenna, one of his friends from the village, was thrust down beside him on the rough bench.

“What happened?” he whispered.

“What do you think?” the girl hissed back.

“Anyone get away in time?”

“No.”

An ice cold ball of dread settled in his stomach, and he gulped down a wave of nausea.

“My parents?” he hissed.

“I'm sorry, Karel. Mine too. All the old people.”

“Bastards!”

One of the Fowkers stepped towards Karel and levelled a spear-tip to his throat. “No talking, Yellowbelly,” he growled.

“Fowk off!”

“Funny. You're a funny boy, I've never heard that one before.” The Fowker forced a guttural laugh and made to turn away, then swung back, landing a booted foot into Karel's stomach. Karel heaved a dry retch and doubled over, trying to catch his rasping breath. By the time he recovered, all but one of the ships had been pushed out, and only a handful of the raiders remained ashore, waiting for who knows what.

Karel's spirits lifted then, as he caught the faint drumming of hooves carried on the breeze. A group of riders crested the hill beyond the village, and he could just make out the grey robes of Jon, the Portioner for the Parish of San Peterpoll, at the head of his bodyguard. The riders bore down on the group of Fowkers by the shore. Karel expected the men on foot to turn tail and run for the boats, but they stood their ground as the cavalrymen approached. He held his breath, waiting for the riders to couch their spears and spur their horses for the charge, but the charge never came. Instead, Portioner Jon pulled up in front of the raiders, and spoke briefly to their leader, who tossed up what looked like a leather purse. The Portioner caught the bundle and tucked it into his saddlebag before wheeling around and leading his troop away at a gentle trot.

Albret the Masterportioner let the shock show on his face. “Meryn,” he rumbled, “I want you to think very carefully before you say any more.” The Council members shifted uneasily in their seats, an undercurrent of tension sharpening their features and their attention. This was uncomfortably close to heresy, all the more uncomfortable for having been uttered in the very presence of the aged Knut herself.

“Are you denying the Knut,” continued Albret, “or making a formal challenge?”

Caught in the dilemma, Meryn's faced paled. “I, I...,” she stammered. “Forgive, me I spoke hastily.”

“Indeed. But you spoke nonetheless. The words are out, and it's too late to swallow them now.”

Meryn stood rooted to the spot, her mind feverishly running over the choice suddenly before her. She had overstepped the mark, she knew, changed the whole course of her life with an unguarded comment. The punishment for heresy was clear, yet she had had no intention of challenging the Knut, either.

She was no heretic. She believed. She believed the Old Words, she believed that one day a Knut would arise to turn back the tides and end this time of loss and suffering and deprivation. True, she didn't believe that the shrivelled husk sat before her was the one, any more than the long line of failed Knuts before her. But neither did Meryn believe that she herself had any claim over the power of the waves. She didn't believe the time was yet come. To deny the Knut was heresy – it was to say the time would never come. Meryn was no heretic, and so she spoke at last.

“I challenge the Knut,” she conceded, already beginning to mourn the life she was to lose, one way or another.

Karel tried to keep his bearings by the sun that glared mercilessly over the quiet sea. To his surprise, he realised that the small fleet of raiders had not turned south back towards the Fowker Islands, but was heading northwards instead. His mind's eye kept replaying the scene of the Portioner catching the bag of silver, and inwardly he seethed at the betrayal. He and the other captives had been sold, their families slaughtered, and here they were, being shipped away to the north. Maybe to the Umbran Isles, though by now they should have been close inshore.

No, he thought, not Umbra. They had cleared the northern tip of the Serpent's Back and with it all hope of rescue by the Linsey fleet stationed on that long, thin spit of land to police the trade lanes. They were heading into the wide expanse of York Sound, and if they weren't bound for Umbra, then their destination could only be one of the ports on the mainland. One of the slave states. It made sense, he mused. That's why the Fowkers had only taken the youngest. That he would never return to Linsey and expose the treachery of Portioner Jon only stoked Karel's rage and deepened the misery of this unwanted journey.

He could do nothing but bide his time and nurse his resentment.

Meryn's challenge against the Knut took precedence over all other business for the Council. Pressing as the annual Portioning was, it could not proceed until the challenge had been tested and resolved. It was a complication he could well have done without, but Albret adjourned the convocation overnight and called his closest advisers into his chamber.

“How in blazes do we do this?” he shouted, as soon as the door was shut. “We've not had a challenge for generations!” The practice had fallen into disuse since the Knut's temporal power had been curtailed. Now only the religious aspects of the position remained.

“If I may,” Jax said. “I believe the ritual is outlined in the Annals.”

“Thank the Gods. Find it and bring it to me.”

“Of course.”

Sarra, the elderly Knut, eased herself into a padded wooden chair. “Well!” she exclaimed, a peevish tone to her thin voice. The challenge to her authority, her ability, had shaken the old woman. “What does that impudent child know of anything? She doesn't know the rituals, the pains I go to at every spring and neap. How dare she blame me?”

“The breeders do not understand the battle must be fought on two fronts. Oh, they want their children and their families, but they don't want the small Portions that go with that,” growled Albret.

“Her challenge will fail. It must,” insisted Sarra.

Albret slumped heavily into a chair at the head of his table, and with a gesture indicated that the others should also be seated. “We shall see what the Annals have to say on the matter,” he said. “Meanwhile, what do we know about goodwife Meryn? Sister Anya, I believe she's a northerner?”

The tall blonde-haired woman lent forward in her chair. “That's true, Masterportioner, from San Peterpoll, my own parish. I know the family. Her father and brother are fishermen, and her mother is a midwife, too. They're respectable people, no trouble to the Sister House at all and the two men take their turns on the patrol ships. So far as I know they pay their tithes on time, but you'd need to check that with the Brother House, they cast the nets in our parish.”

“But it's not your parish on work rotation though, Anya, so why is she here?”

“No, with her mother being midwife there, Meryn was assigned to Allsan parish once she'd finished her apprenticeship, and it's those women who are here in Westport now.”

“Causing all the trouble,” observed Albret.

The Fowkers rowed in shifts throughout the night, their way lit by the fat waxing moon. Karel had been more than ready for the small ration of saltfish and stale water the Fowkers had issued to their captives. His bonds had been released long enough for him to eat, but with his guard's spear prodding him in the back he knew it was useless to even attempt anything. All too soon, his meagre meal was finished and his hands bound once more and the damp rope continued to chafe at his sore wrists. He had thought sleep would be impossible, but exhaustion, inadequate food and his earlier concussion weighed heavily, the rolling of the ship and the rhythmic beat of the oars lulled his senses, and he nodded off a few times, jerking awake in confusion each time his head lolled on to his chest.

Dawn broke over the dark waters of York Sound, and the grey smear of a distant shore loomed ahead. The little flotilla's course had changed overnight, the rising sun to their rear telling Karel that they now bore due west. The long sleek ships skimmed across the lazy waves, steering towards the twin promontories guarding a broad, sheltered bay. Laden merchant ships filed out of the harbour mouth, low and sluggish in the water, under the vigilant watch of an armed patrol ship backing water against the tide. A fast skiff darted out from behind the fighting vessel and intercepted the Fowkers' lead ship. A few words were exchanged, too distant for Karel to hear, but the skiff 's crew tossed a pennant across, a courtesy flag which the Fowkers hoisted immediately.

The early morning light illuminated a mass of buildings clustered along either shore, but they were not of the wood and thatch construction Karel had known all his life. These looked like pale stone, whitish grey, or baked clay, glowing in their sunrise hues. The scale of the settlement was beyond any Karel had known back on Linsey Island, even though he could see much that seemed in ruins. Even Eastport and Westport were mere villages compared to this expanse.

A long wharf lined the waterfront, and the Fowker crewmen prepared to land. Oarsmen fore and aft skilfully brought the hulls into alignment and shipped oars as the gliding craft covered the final stretch of water. Ropes were thrown ashore and secured by desultory wharfmen working under the close but languid scrutiny of a posse of armed men.

The Fowkers' leader leapt ashore to greet a richly-dressed official, whilst one of his comrades started bellowing orders.

“Right, you Yellowbellies! Stand up and get moving!”

Karel and his fellow captives stumbled to their feet, struggling to balance in the bobbing ship with their hands tied. The crude gangplank was narrow and none too stable, but the prisoners shuffled along it one by one. Karel heard the Fowker chief laughing with the costumed panjandrum ahead, and another surge of fury at Portioner Jon's betrayal washed through him. He clenched his bound fists impotently, then a Fowker's heavy boot found his backside and propelled him forward on to the wharf. His dry lips were cracking with thirst, and the half-digested remains of the saltfish stirred his stomach uncomfortably.

Looking around him, Karel could see the wharfmen were hobbled, though their hands were free to work. Their clothing was rough, little better than sacking, whilst the guards wore leather breast-plates over long linen tunics and breeches not unlike his own, except for the colours. The soldiers' linens were dyed a strong blue, whereas his own were undyed, and after the rough voyage they were no longer particularly clean, stained by the foul splashes from the Fowkers' bilge and crusted over with dried salt-spray. He looked as he felt, a weather-beaten and downcast drudge, and his companions looked no better. The cluster of captured villagers milled around on the wharf, bewildered. Behind them the Fowker crewmen wielded their spears, and ahead, the blue-clad soldiers were being roused to action by the peacock of an official.

“Welcome to the Meerat of Braffur,” he sneered. To Karel's ears, his accent sounded as clipped as the Fowkers' was slurred, with short vowels and hard consonants. “I trust your stay with us will be short and profitable. It will also be comfortable, if your behaviour is acceptable. Escape is not only unwise, but impossible.” The official nodded to the guards, who advanced towards the captives, their vicious-looking polearms held ready, and proceeded to separate the young men and boys from the women and girls. They led the females away first, through a heavy gate set into a tall, wooden stockade. As they passed, the official marked off their numbers on a tally board.

“Ik, do, teen, cha...”, he counted to himself, then grunted in satisfaction as the last girl entered and the gate closed behind her.

Karel felt panic rising within him, but he was still tightly bound, and the soldiers outnumbered the remaining villagers. The gateway before him marked the end of all hope.

By the time Jax returned from the archives bearing the battered old volume of the Annals of Linsey, Albret's patience was worn even thinner than its usual diaphanous state. “I've found what we need, Masterportioner,” the clerk gasped, somewhat breathless from scurrying through the hallways and corridors of the Portion Hall.

“Well? What is it, man? What must we do?” Albret snapped.

Jax, face flushed with the exertion, lay the thick, leather-bound book on the Masterportioner's table, but kept a hand firmly on its front cover as though holding it closed to prevent any secrets escaping unbidden. “A quick word first,” he said, and beckoned to Albret to come closer. The two huddled together, heads bent towards one another, murmuring quietly.

“I see,” said Albret, and he turned to the Knut, still seated in the corner of the room. “I'm sorry, Sarra, but I must ask you to leave. It seems the Knut is forbidden any foreknowledge of the … ritual,” he amended, not wishing to use the word he first conceived – “trial”.

“Preposterous!” the elderly woman declared. “Ritual is the domain of the Knut! I don't see...”

“Nor can you see, Knut.” Albret interrupted. “It is written, and we are bound. I'm sure you of all people understand that ritual must be followed to the letter? To offend the Gods so would only compound our forefathers' sin. A challenge has been raised, however unwisely, and we must see it through. It is written.”

Visibly angered by this rebuttal, Sarra slowly rose from her seat, and left the chamber without another word. Once the door closed behind the Knut, and her shuffling footsteps had receded, Jax addressed the remaining councillors, explaining the ritual as laid out in the ancient text. Even Albret was stunned into silence.

“So, explain that again, Meryn. They only bring us here to stop us tupping?” Hilda was incredulous.

“So says the Masterportioner,” the midwife replied.

“He don't know my husband,” Hilda chuckled. “Give him a pot of ale and a full pipe, that's all it takes. No interest for days.”

Meryn allowed herself a brief smile. She had been brooding about the business of the Knut and her challenge. She really hadn't meant to do that, but, well, she often spoke before thinking, a fault she readily admitted. Chatting with Hilda always cheered her up and it was helping now as they sat together in the hostel, 'confined to barracks' as the militia officer had put it.

“You know, Hilda, I could give you something to pep him up a bit.”

“I'd rather have a barrel of ale,” the older woman retorted, and they both laughed. “Anyway, I've already had three, and that's been enough trouble.”

“Lucky your eldest joined the Brotherhood,” said Meryn.

“Well, there was never any doubt about that. You could always tell, even when he was a nipper. Anyway, the other two were Winterborn, and I'm not the best or worst on that score.” That was true enough. The Knut's edicts placed heavy tithes on children, although the demands were eased if any took the vow and joined a Brother or Sister House.

“I barely remember the Red Sky Winter,” Meryn admitted. “I was very young.”

“Hungry times, they were,” Hilda recalled. “A lot of the old folk didn't make it. The summers were so short, we barely got the crops in. Thank the Gods for the fishing, though you soon got sick of fish soup, I can tell you.”

“Fish soup always reminds me of my childhood. That, and my mother always being so busy.”

“She would have been, yes. Not many ways to keep warm, and the herbs were in short supply, too. Couple more years and all the Winterborn will be looking for their own holdings. The Portioners will have their work cut out, then, believe you me.”

“Things can change in a year or two,” Meryn replied, the laughter draining away. “There may be a new Knut by then,” she added, in a near whisper.

Hilda looked up sharply. “What have you heard? Is the old bat ill? Do tell!”

Shadows still hung over the streets of Westport as the rider clattered into town, his horse foaming and sweating beneath him. The gates had only just been opened when he cantered through and bore down on the Portion Hall at a speed that would have been dangerous any later in the day. The streets were mostly empty but for tired night watchmen and a few early risers heading towards dairy or bakery.

The rider was already dismounting as his horse skittered to a halt in the Hall's courtyard, and he was running towards the entrance, satchel in hand, even before the bleary-eyed groom had grasped the dangling reins.

“Urgent message for the Masterportioner!” His shouting was enough to wake the town, let alone the doorman.

Albret preferred his news and despatches to arrive after breakfast rather than before, and an urgent rider always heralded an ill-fated day. He held his hand out to the messenger. “Give me the bad news, then,” he sighed, “no-one rides like that to announce a record harvest.”

Plucking at the straps which sealed the satchel, Albret flipped it open and pulled out the single hand-written note within. “Oh, by the Gods!” he exclaimed. “Whatever next?”

Jax appeared unannounced at the door to the chamber. “Bad news, m'lud?”

Albret just shook his head in dismay and passed the note over to the clerk to read for himself. As he read, Jax's face blanched, and before he could react further a small crowd had gathered, drawn by the messenger's commotion. He looked up and passed the note to the next person, Sarra, the Knut.

“Thank you, but please tell me,” she replied, declining to take the scrap from his hand. In his shock, Jax had forgotten the Knut could not read. Although she had never married, neither had she entered a Sister House, and had consequently never been taught her letters.

It was Albret who took charge and relayed the news to the growing crowd. “Fowkers have raided San Peterpoll. There are no survivors. It appears they struck just before the tithing party arrived. Brother Jon is overseeing the burials.”

“Gods, no!” cried Anya. “They can't all be dead, surely? Forgive me, I must return to the Sister House, there must be so much to do!”

Albret, with an unaccustomed tenderness, took Anya's hand and said gently. “There are no survivors in the village, but the Houses weren't attacked. They can fend for themselves; your place is here.”

Pinch faced, the Knut interjected “It's that woman's fault! The Gods have taken offence at her challenge and now they punish us. It's her village they destroyed!”

“If you could read, you would realise the raid happened before the challenge,” Jax snapped.

Albret cast a reproving glance at the clerk, but said nothing. The younger man's face flushed, but whether from anger or shame, Albret would rather not know. But there was something he did want to know. How had the Fowker ships evaded the patrols of the Linsey fleet?

Karel seethed under the gaze of the overseer, and for a while refused to answer the question. He was one of the dozen male captives kneeling in a line, hands bound behind them.

“Again. What is your occupation?”

Karel looked down, studied the sand between his knees, determined not to comply. There were footsteps behind him, and he felt the sharp point of a pole axe against the base of his skull.

“One last time, slave. Tell me your occupation, or I shall have to record you as spoilage.”

“Fisherman,” he admitted finally. Tempted as he had been to let the guard kill him there and then, Karel's courage failed him.

“Another one,” sighed the overseer, before moving on to the boy kneeling beside Karel. “Now this one looks too young. I'll put you down for the pleasure house, I think.”

“He's a fisherman, too,” growled Karel. He understood the implications of what the overseer had said, even if the boy hadn't, and he suddenly realised the fate that most probably awaited the young women in the adjoining pen. He thought of Jenna. Maybe it was the desperate situation they were now in, maybe it was the warmth they had shared on the cold journey across the York Sound, but the thought of never seeing her again filled him with a dread that drowned out his fears for his own fate.

The overseer looked back at Karel. “Now he's found his tongue, it seems he can't leave it alone. Use it again without permission, and I'll have it cut out, do you understand me, slave?” Karel nodded, cowed, but counted it as a small victory when the overseer said 'Fisherman' once more as he marked his tally and continued along the line.

Reaching the end of the line of captives, the overseer turned at last to the waiting Fowker chieftain, who was barely concealing his impatience with the procedure. The overseer spoke a number. The Fowker spat on the ground, clearly unimpressed.

“What can I say?” the overseer replied, giving a slight shrug. “You raid a fishing village, you get fishermen. You probably killed the valuable ones. A good blacksmith would be worth more than this lot together. These will go for rowers, and they're not even a full crew.”

“I can take them to the Middle Lands instead,” countered the Fowker.

The overseer smiled a smug smile. “You could try.”

“Is that a threat?” The chieftain bristled. He surveyed the soldiers arrayed behind the captives, then the small body of unarmed men he had been allowed to bring ashore.

“Not at all. Friendly advice, that's all. Just imagine if word got out to the Linsey outpost on the Serpent's Back. They would be on you before you reach the Knotty Shore. All that extra rowing before you can pay off your crews, too. You won't get a better price; that's why you came here in the first place.”

The chieftain spat once more, but this time into the palm of his hand, which he extended to the overseer. “You drive a hard bargain, but my men will eat well enough from it.”

A thin line of militiamen held back the milling crowd that lined the square outside the Portion Hall. At the top of the steps, Masterportioner Albret was presiding over the formalities, the Councillors standing in a line behind him. The summer sun was bright, and Albret, dressed in his heavy formal robes and weighed down by duty, was not alone in feeling the oppressive heat. He held up his right hand to signal the beginning of proceedings, and the murmur of the crowd subsided as everyone strained to hear.

“People of Linsey,” he intoned, “Today, we beg again the forgiveness of the Gods. We beg our release from the sins of our forebears. For it was written that seven times seven generations must atone for those sins before a Knut would arise to turn back the tides. Our Knuts have prayed and performed the rituals ever since, and all have been defeated by the waves. Today, Goodwife Meryn of San Peterpoll has challenged our Beloved Knut Sarra to prove her title and overturn the curse that still lies upon us. Fellow believers, join us now in prayer to lend Sarra the strength to meet this challenge and deliver us from our lamentations.”

The gathered townsfolk bowed their heads and the hubbub subsided to a murmur of whispered recitation interspersed with the shushing of children, finally settling to a silence barely scratched by the rustle of genuflection.

Robed in white, Sarra was kneeling in the centre of the square, unaware of the trials that lay before her, shielded by the secrecy ordained in the Annals. After a suitably respectful period of silence, Albret spoke once more.

“Sarra, Beloved Knut, go now with the prayers of the people. May the Gods look favourably upon us and accept our atonement this day.”

The procession set off from the square, the Knut escorted by half a dozen of the Portioners and a small ceremonial guard drawn from the militia. Crowds lined the streets down towards the harbour where a small ship waited to carry the party across to the Pup of Linsey, the small, sacred islet which stood proud of Linsey's south coast. The crowd were mostly silent, but a few called out blessings to cheer on the Knut. Sarra's face was drawn and pale, the effect heightened by the whiteness of the robe she wore. Those who knew her well thought she had aged a decade overnight, so deep were the worry lines as she walked to her uncertain fate. As Masterportioner, it had fallen on Albret to oversee the challenge and his own expression was grim despite his efforts to hold a cold face. The whole business of the Portioning was on hold, and the complications were mounting, as if there hadn't been enough to begin with. He could neither afford the time away from the Council chamber, nor deputise this ritual challenge. It was his painful duty to officiate. It was written.

Once the Fowkers had been paid off for their human cargo, their ships departed and the villagers were left alone with the slave traders. The transformation from prisoner to slave was marked by the exchange of wrist bindings for leg irons. Towards sunset their guards distributed a rough meal of unfamiliar flat bread with pitchers of water, and although bland, the meal was ample and more satisfying than the Fowkers' saltfish. Once they had eaten, they were led away to cells for the night. Overwhelmed with exhaustion, Karel was asleep atop the sack-cloth covered straw almost before the cell door was locked behind him. The morning came all too soon.

Jarred awake by the rattle of keys in the lock and the crash of the door being pushed open, Karel found himself instantly alert. The guard tossed another of the flat loaves towards him, and Karel scrabbled to catch it before it bounced to the grimy floor.

“Eat quickly. You're going to market,” the guard said over his shoulder before moving to the next cell.

Back in the outdoor enclosure where they had been sold by the Fowkers, Karel and his fellow villagers found themselves as quickly sold to the fat ship owner who had sneeringly examined them. Despite his haggling, the amount of coin that changed hands was far larger than that which the Fowker chieftain had grudgingly accepted the day before. The perfumed slave trader had wrung his hands most apologetically whilst explaining how the fishermen were in such great demand for oarsmen, and how many competing ship owners had been sidelined in favour of his valued client.

Karel's sense of bitterness deepened. He could barely fathom the numbers, but it left a sour taste when he realised that more coin had changed hands for his life in these few days than he had ever hoped to earn for himself. Whatever it took, he vowed, Portioner Jon's treachery would be exposed. All he had to do was escape his bonds and somehow find his way home to Linsey. The hardest task, though, would be to find someone who would even listen to a poor fisherman, he knew.

Sarra's eyes widened as she saw the Knut's throne. It was little more than a block of carved stone in the rocky cove on the southern tip of the Pup, exactly where the Annals had described. When the ship had been beached on the shingle there had been no mistaking the throne as it lowered over the sloping beach where it met the cliffs. The tide now was slack, but the banded darkness staining the lower levels of the rock face gave an ominous foreboding of the ritual she was to endure.

The strand was steep and the shingle rolled and shifted underfoot, dragging down even the younger and more sprightly members of the party. The throne sat slightly askew, as though it had settled since its previous use decades ago.

Albret took the lead as the party clambered up the treacherous slope, Anya and another Councillor assisting Sarra behind him. At the top, the elderly Knut was guided into the throne's cold, stone seat. She had to be lifted into place, and her legs dangled over the ledge, her bare feet clear of the stones below. Her features were calm, an impassive expression that only broke once, when the clasps were attached over her wrists, binding them irrevocably to the throne's arms.

Albret placed a reassuring hand upon Sarra's shoulder, the waspish Knut he had known for years now lost behind the vacant stare of a doomed old woman. “Drive back the waves, Sarra. You are the Knut, you know the rituals and the sacred words. We must leave you now, but we will all be praying for you. Take strength from that. Offer up our atonement, and Gods willing we shall bring you home at the next low tide.”

Turning quickly to avoid the tears welling in her eyes, he led the party back to the ship already beginning to lift on the rising tide. As the ship sailed from view across the placid sea, salt water trickled down Sarra's face, eager for the coming reunion with the elemental force rising to welcome it back to the fold.

Jax was enjoying the quietness of the Council Hall. It was rare for him to have the corridors and chambers to himself, but with the Challenge under way, the remaining Councillors were out of the way and Jax's fastidiousness was eating at him. With the Portioning on hold, papers and scrolls lay scattered about the large table in the Masterportioner's chamber, and the untidiness of it all had been a constant irritant. Quietly humming to himself, Jax set about re-organising the records, Parish by Parish, so the maps and lists and tithing returns were all collated properly. He liked things neat, and there was one pile of papers that screamed out at him because of the the work that would now have to be scratched out and begun again from fresh. San Peterpoll.

It bothered him that his compassion for the slain should be sullied by his jubilation over the vacant holdings that were now available for Portioning. Perhaps some of the tougher decisions the Council had been forced to make so far might be rethought. With luck, the Council may be able to uncork some of the pressure building up with the coming wave of Winterborn.

The sound of booted footsteps outside the chamber took Jax by surprise. He turned to the door as it swung open, and Brother Jon stepped through, newly arrived from the north,

“Where is everyone?” Jon snapped, not even offering Jax a greeting.

“Sarra has been challenged,” replied the clerk, with a calmness he didn't feel.

“So?” Having been absent, Jon had no inkling of the process written in the Annals.

“So the Portioning is on hold until the Challenge has been tested. Prepare yourself for a new Knut.”

“You believe the Challenge will succeed, then.” It was not a question.

“They always have before. Obviously.” Jax did not need to explain. If a Knut could prove victory over the waves, then his or her work would be done, atonement fulfilled.

“I suppose I shall have to give my report on the Fowker raid to the new Knut, then,” said Jon, holding up the sheaf of papers in his hand. “Who made the challenge, by the way?”

“Goodwife Meryn,” Jax replied, noting as he did so the look of fear that passed over Jon's face before he could compose himself. The clerk held out his hand, indicating Jon's documents. “I will need to make a copy for the Annals, I may as well start now whilst we're waiting.”

Jon hesitated, but had no grounds to refuse the clerk's request. He handed over one sheet, and made to return the rest to his satchel, but Jax had already caught a glimpse of the document. “A list of names, Jon? You have already had time to consider names for the reassignment of holdings? Quick work, Jon. Very quick.”

The sea's rise was inexorable, yet the waves were gentle as they began to caress her naked feet. The water was cold, but the beating sun warmed the air in the sheltered cove. A mercy or a torture, Sarra could not decide, because the warmth served to mark more sharply the waters' rise up her dangling legs, its pooling in the cold seat of the throne, the heavy clinging of the robes that it soaked.

Her voice was hoarse with pleading. All alone with her fate, no-one else would ever know what she promised the Gods in return for forgiveness. History was replayed; the waters rose as they had risen over the lost lands, her pleas for life were the pleas of all of Linsey. Her flesh was the island itself, drowning slowly, inch by inch, condemned by the long forgotten, no longer understood, transgressions of their forebears. All the sham of selfless ritual she had performed for countless thousands of tides was stripped back now to the fundamental question of survival.

Small things floated in the water's swell, brushing her skin, sneaking under the billowing robe where the caress of limp wrack stirred regrets and pride for her life of childless, necessary sacrifice. The rippling waters stirred her unsuckled breasts, laid a shimmering noose to her neck, and splashed on to her upturned, imploring face, then kissed her thin lips. She spluttered on the bitter brine and the sea entered her, but briefly. Satisfied, appeased, forgiving, the water began its slow, so slow, retreat.

Sarra breathed again, exulting in the receding caress of the defeated sea.

The sudden squall blew up out of nowhere, almost as though the sea raged against some distant slight. The convoy of merchantmen were scattered in the darkness, and the slave rowers on the floundering ships fought all night against the crashing swell as the coxes tried to steer their ships into the howling winds. Karel and his crewmates strained against the tempest as it drove their de-masted hulk towards the spuming rocks, the Serpent's Back silhouetted against the dawning day.