Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

2

Strike the Bell

“M

IND

your business, lad!”

He thought he had been minding it, had simply been

watching the Wyr-chieftain bend over and try to disguise a
jaw-cracking yawn by flaking a very heavy mooring rope into
a circle. He hadn’t stopped his work, and that yawn was,
after all, his business… seeing that he was part of the reason
the Wyr-chieftain wasn’t getting enough sleep.

Taran was aware that a very silly grin had formed on his

face, but it congealed as another bucket crashed down
beside the one already next to him, water sloshing over the
wooden sides. There was a brown, brawny arm attached to
the twisted-hemp handle of that bucket, that arm extending
from a salt-stained leather vest and, above that, a riot of
brown twist-locks pulled back from narrowed, brown eyes.

First Wyr-mate Odina had a considerable glare, no

question.

“Get that smirk off your face,” she told Taran, “and pay

attention to what you’re doing. Your water’s dirty. Dump it,
use this. And keep dumping it, unless you want to scrub the
entire deck again.”

Scrubbing the ship’s deck on hands and knees seemed

to be Odina’s favorite job for him, aside from lubricating the
blocks and pulleys with a particularly foul-smelling black
grease. When he gave her a wary look, she merely shrugged.

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“The faster you learn your way about, the faster Slow Tolly
can go back to doing these simpler tasks. You’ll do both him
and you a favor, bairn. So stop ogling Himself and get back
to work. What do you think you came here for?”

Escape. That’s what Taran had come here for, and

adventure, and most of all, the promise of his cousin
Merimac—Wyr-chieftain of Geillidh—who had not only been
his first lover, but also first to acknowledge that Taran no
more belonged in the farm- and fishing-lodge of their kin
than he should flap his arms and fly to Sister Moon. And
from the first time Taran had stepped foot on Geillidh and
joined her small complement—family, really—that promise
had been fulfilled. The crew had sung him welcome as
Merimac had painted the Wyr-ogom upon his face—the
marks that began his journey as one of the Wyrling, the
Riverdrivers—and once they’d gotten underway, Taran had
taken to the lobbing motion of the boat with an odd grace, as
if something in his head and his heels clicked into
recognition. And River Herself, stretching a coppery wake,
wide and long beneath the galley, parting before them or
wrestling with them depending on Her mood… She spoke to
him, filled his breast. The story-path of which Merimac had
so often told him—he was here now, walking it. Constant,
often unbearable in its bliss—here was freedom so sharp and
full he could taste it on his tongue like bow spray. Here was
promise and prospect. Here was life, and belonging….

But here was also this withering bucket, and thrice-

withered scrub brush, and as much work as a full season of
haying and fishing. Another promise had been proven true
upon his first steps aboard: he might be the Wyr-chieftain’s
cousin and lovemate, but it got him absolutely no favors

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when it came to how Geillidh ran.

And she ran like an outLand-crafted timekeeper.

It was his fifth Sunrise of cleaning the interminably

dirty deck—which merely got dirtier the more portage stops
they made—and any raw or thrilling immediacy of life on
River had lost much of its glamour. Freedom had dwindled
down to how much of said mythic quality could be snatched
between perpetual lading and chores. Several of the younger
Wyrmates sympathized with him, telling him he’d picked the
worst and busiest time of the spring running to come
aboard, but those few pleasantries didn’t salve Taran’s
fraying nerves.

But then, it seemed that his were not the only nerves

fraying. Taran once again gave a peek in Merimac’s direction.
His cousin had come to bed in an unusually foul humor, and
while it hadn’t interfered with what they did in that bed—
save, perhaps, in a good way, and Taran hid another smirk—
Merimac had also woken up ill-tempered. Or perhaps a
better term would be preoccupied. He looked as if he had
merely jumped into leggings and vest, his long brown hair
braided back perfunctorily, and the feathered charm that
bespoke his rank was tied slightly askew at his left temple.
There was always a certain carelessness to Merimac’s
demeanor—yet it was one that nevertheless bespoke some
planning to achieve. Lack of sleep could perhaps explain it,
but now that Taran thought about it, Merimac had spent
much of lastSun and this stalking the boat like a caged
panther, looking for make-work to do. Like putting away
mooring rope.

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This couldn’t be normal. Merimac had a temper, no

question, but Taran had never seen him this wound up,
this… edgy. Stalking over to a halt not a spear-length from
Taran, next to Odina, Merimac’s powerful arms were crossed
over his tattooed chest; he towered over her by at least three
hands and outweighed her probably twice over, but she
didn’t seem the least bit daunted. Despite the fact that he
was fairly vibrating.

“We talked of this upon lastSun’s setting.” Odina was

speaking in earnest, low tones. Both of them were looking
out over the downward rush of River. “It’s trouble waiting…
where is Darlik?” Odina suddenly called out to the two lads
a-stem, both rolling and checking the forward sheets.

“His turn for sleeping,” one of the lads answered.

“Ai, I remember now. Make sure he’s got the spare jib

finished before nextSun—”

“He was sewing on it earlier,” the other lad offered. “I

think he was nearly finished.”

Taran made one last go with the scrubbing, gave a

satisfied nod, and once more slid his eyes toward his cousin.
Merimac had pulled a chart from the round leather case over
one arm, had unrolled and was studying it, brows drawn
together. He yawned again. Taran couldn’t help it; he
lowered his head to hide another smirk. A strand of
chestnut-black hair slipped from the hastily-tied leather
thong at Taran’s nape; he twitched his nose as it tickled, and
peered upward once more.

“The Strait’s trouble on a good Sun’s passage, to be

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sure.” Odina was also looking at the chart. “But this… the
early thaw’s ensured it to be in angry spate, and I don’t like
it, not one bit. Surely there’s another way.”

“Believe me, lass, if there was another way we’d already

have considered it,” Merimac said flatly. “Someone has to spot
the rocks and you know it; I’m the only choice and you know
that as well. The only one who is more familiar with this
passage than I am is Munro, and he’s too old to go point.”

Not a length away, mending a bit of rigging, Munro

snorted agreement, scratched at his bald head, and
continued his work, thick but nimble fingers flying. As Odina
also shrugged agreement, albeit unwilling, she noticed Taran
watching and ordered, “On with you, boy, we don’t need you
gawking like a lubber. If you’ve so quickly finished the decks,
you can grease the blocks.” Then she turned back to the
chart. Merimac had not even noticed, scrutinizing the
parchment spread between his hands. It grated across every
insecurity Taran possessed; he wanted to speak, but instead
clenched his teeth, remembering the conversation he’d had
with his cousin only two nights previous….

“Where the running of this galley is in question, lad, there

are two people you are to obey as you’d obey me: Odina and
Munro. More than you’d obey me, because you can get about
me and you know it. They know it too. Until you prove
yourself, Odina in particular is going to run your tail ragged—
and she’s doing it with my permission.”

“Mac—”

“I’ll hear no more of this from you. Prove yourself and you’ll

find her on your side. Odina is one of the best people I’ve known.”

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At least the argument, such as it was, had ended

somewhat satisfactorily with a bout of rather rough and
furious sex.

On Taran’s part, anyway. Clenching his teeth tighter, he

went to do as bidden.

While Taran was doing the messy work with the wooden

oar blocks, Slow Tolly inched over and, with a gentle smile,
pulled from his tattered longcoat a sizeable hunk of bread
stuffed with sausage. “I thought y’ might need it,” he said in
his deliberate way. “Being a growin’ lad an’ all.”

Taran took it, not even minding his greasy hands, and

wolfed down a bite. “Thank you,” he mumbled between
chews. “Very much.”

“Ai, it’ll be fine, boy.” Tolly patted Taran’s arm. “Early

Suns are always th’ worst. I was dog-tired and starvin’ my
first whole for’night a’Wyr. You’ll do fine.”

Taran smiled at the warmth the words gave him,

nevertheless found his eyes sliding sideways toward
Merimac. His cousin was striding toward the bow with
tensioned purpose; Munro was beside him, rolling with the
shortened stride his one stunted leg gave him.

“Himself’s akin to bear-kin now.” Tolly had followed his

gaze. “And will be for a few Suns. Don’t hold it in your heart.
It’s only because we’re soon taking on the Strait.”

“The Strait?” Taran had heard that mentioned more

than once.

“A’io,” Tolly confirmed. “Nasty place. Rocks as big as

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Geillidh herself. Wyr-chieftain and old Munro’s the only ones
who knows it, like. Most of us have been through it more’n a
few times—but they’ve taken on the Strait for uncounted
passages. An’ our Geillidh has survived ’em all with nary
more than a rap to her hull. But now?” Tolly grimaced. “Now
thaw’s come early ’cause of the purty weather, and River’s
worse’n She’s ever been. It’s gonter to be quite a ride.”

Taran finished all but inhaling his impromptu meal, and

Tolly patted him again, leaning forward with a childlike grin
that made the faded, permanent Wyr-marks on his cheeks
dance upward and betrayed several large and intriguing gaps
in his teeth. “I wish y’d hurry your shakedown, though. I
hate it when Odina makes me do riggin’. It’s… hard. I want
my mop back.”

He was serious, too.

With such rather odd encouragement, before Sun’s

setting Taran proved that he could climb, and climb well.
Thusly, as the lightest of them—including Odina, who was
shorter but much more generously framed—Taran was
promoted to the high rigging, unfouling lines and sheets,
sighting ahead. The sighting was to become his favorite,
clinging to the mast and swaying in the breeze, lookout up-
and downRiver for obstacles and other boats that might
cross their path. He was miffed by Merimac’s insistence that
he wear a harness—none of the others did—but the one time
he’d wriggled out of it, Odina had merely sent Tolly up to put
it back on him, like some bairn.

On his third Sun aloft, Taran saw what his shipmates

had all been so on edge about. And understood.

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Narrow, it was, with rocks thrusting up like jagged,

vicious teeth from beneath River’s slipstream skin. Copper-
cream froth glinted dully beneath Sky and Sun, whipped
swift and churning, oblique and deadly as a viper from arid
NoonLands. For long heartbeats, Taran couldn’t manage to
call down from the mast—the magnitude of it choked him.
He simply hung there, Wind tugging at his hair and tearing
his eyes. Finally, he made his voice work.

“Ahead!” he squeaked, then cleared his throat, gave a

whistle, and, forcing his voice back down into his chest,
shouted, “It’s ahead! The Strait!”

He caught sight of his cousin’s eyes raised toward him,

and realized that Merimac already knew, was merely waiting
for confirmation. A nod, a brief smile of approval, then:

“Batten down!” Merimac barked. “Batten down strong.

On deck, Taran, now!”

Wyrmates scattered like ants across the decking,

hurrying to do his bidding. Taran hesitated, staring with
bleak fascination at the roiling waters not very far ahead.

“Giddown, lad!” Munro bellowed up at him. “En’t safe,

there!”

Taran started, tore his eyes from the scene ahead, and

clambered down the pole. He barely had time to unsnap his
harness line before Munro rolled over and grabbed Taran by
that same harness, propelling him over to the door leading
down to the hold Taran shared with Merimac. Beside the
door was one of the ever-present handles; Munro said only,
“Hold t’ it an’ stay!” and turned on one heel, leaving Taran
there. Taran obeyed without a word. It was frightfully

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serious, the whole business, particularly when seeing the
tension of his companions, their determined focus upon the
upcoming narrow passage of upthrust rocks.

As Taran watched, Merimac pulled off his vest and

boots, quickly unlaced and removed the bottom cuff of his
leggings. Careless appearance was making sudden, grim
sense as Merimac, stripped to bare essentials, shifted his
knives into even-easier access, then shrugged into harness
and stayline. Odina was helping, tossing the discarded items
over one arm, making sure the harness was fast. She
nodded. Merimac clipped the line to the bowsprit, clambered
up and out onto it, fingers and toes gripping steady purchase
on the narrow, hard beam. Letting out a small moan of
protest, Taran lurched forward, only to find that Munro had
clipped his own harness and line to the handle. He hadn’t
been on board long enough to be of any use here; he was
relegated to mere observation, not help, as Merimac settled
himself on the suddenly-tiny bowsprit.

Munro positioned himself by the tiller not a length in

front of Taran; something glinted bronze in one gnarled
hand: he held a timekeeper. Merimac glanced back at his old
mentor; they shared a long, frank gaze, then Munro nodded.
Merimac’s mouth twisted in a lopsided grin as he turned
back ahead, more focused than fretful; Taran was abruptly
scared enough, he was sure, for both of them. If Merimac
lost his grip, or was lurched off, or his harness didn’t hold
secure, it would be merely a question as to which would take
him first: the rocks or Geillidh’s prow.

This was what had been meant by “point”: lookout for

the rocks and rapids.

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The galley was careening toward the Strait at daunting

speed; Sun’s light dappled and flitted, deceptively playful
across the deck as everyone set to, taking up oars or hauling
at rope and sail in preparation. Munro’s grip on the tiller was
firm but relaxed, eyes narrowed, focused. Odina came back
by Taran, opened the hold door, and tossed Merimac’s
clothes down within. She made sure both door and Taran’s
harness was fast, gave him a steadying look.

Tree branches clawed at the topmost rigging; Odina

looked upward and growled a curse. Trotting forward, she
shouted an order that was quickly carried out. Geillidh
thought to wobble but straightened once more, was sucked
forward into the swift, hungry water. Odina whistled sharp
warning, pointing up as Merimac glanced her way. His face
filled with swift apprehension as he saw the upper peril.
Nodding understanding, he rapidly shook it off and returned
his eyes to the lower.

Time seemed to draw itself out. Taran could count its

passage by the slow thud of his pulse reverberating behind
his ears. Merimac gave a sudden shout and from right behind
him, Odina gave a directive that Taran didn’t understand. The
others did. With amazing speed, the sails were trimmed, the
burly oarmates along one side of the galley were hauling with
all their strength, and Geillidh heeled in the water.

Munro, hand steady to the tiller, eyed his timekeeper

and gave a nod. As Geillidh straightened, he began a loud
count. “Six… five… four… thr—”

Before he could finish, Merimac let out another shout.

Munro gave an angry curse and snatched the tiller as Odina

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set the crew to their own corrections. “Too quick, too quick,”
Taran heard Munro mutter, then he bellowed, “Ai, hoist that
fo’ard jib!!”

The galley lurched powerfully to starboard at her

Wyrmates’ behest, then abruptly sagged backward,
accompanied by the sound of breaking tree branches from
overhead. Taran stumbled forward, yanked himself up by the
harness, and lurched back under the overhang just in time
as grey hunks of wood fell about him; a broken branch
rapped his shoulder rather painfully. Sails ripped with a
ragged, sharp growl; the masts creaked and popped.
Merimac gave a sharp yell, Odina bellowed something, and
their Wyrmates, amidst curses and heartfelt pleas, gamely
responded. In consequence, Geillidh gave a groan and
plunged forward, sending Merimac hanging to one side of the
bowsprit and several others sprawling as her bow leapt from
the water like a pony at the starter’s shout.

“Son of a—!” Merimac swore, desperately righting

himself, and screamed, “Hard a-port, hard a-port, now!”

Odina bawled an echo of the order; Munro hauled at the

tiller as the oar-mates strained. The sails luffed uselessly at
the change, were quickly and desperately sheeted tight by
the riggers so that they miraculously filled… but not quickly
enough. There was another stomach-dropping lurch from
Geillidh, then a brutal jolt that sent Taran fully off his feet
and sprawling forward, then a high-pitched scream.
Dangling like a poppet from the end of his stayline,
desperately trying to get his feet back underneath him,
Taran wondered in a panic if someone had fallen overboard—
if Mac had fallen….

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But no throat of their People could make that noise. It was

the ravage of wood, shearing from Geillidh’s starboard hull.

“Port!” Merimac bellowed, hanging on for all his life was

worth, and it seemed impossible, for everyone was surely
desperate in their straining and sheeting and cleating, but
Geillidh kept wailing. It gave them all that last adrenaline-
laced impetus. Shouts and curses were all but drowned
beneath the boat’s shrieks, but finally Geillidh submitted to
their ministrations, fiercely pitched to port, and went quiet.

“Did she hole?” Munro shouted, but there was no time

to answer, let alone find out, as Merimac barked another
direction. Odina reinforced it, and the crew obeyed, sending
the galley in a deep lurch even farther to port. Taran banged
into the wall and clawed at it, seeking some sort of purchase.

Odina, running past Taran, halted to snatch him

upright, held him there for the precious heartbeats it took
him to steady, then sped over starboard.

“Did she hole?” Munro shouted again. Odina leaned over

the railing so far that Taran feared for her balance, then
shoved upright again and shook her head, eyes wide and
fearful.

“Can’t tell!”

Merimac had glanced backward; it was plain he was

worried for his ship, yet he only had that one wild glimpse to
consider all the possible outcomes of what damage there
was—steering loss, listing, a hole that even now was filling
the hold with copper water, how his Wyrmates could survive
if Geillidh suddenly went down—before the Strait once again

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demanded his full attention. He turned back to River with
eyes hard as flint. His voice was raw as he spat more orders;
everyone responded with like determination. None of them
could be spared to so much as go below and look—and when
Taran threw Munro a pleading look—he could go, could
look—Munro shook his head.

“Y’ don’t know what to look for, lad,” the old one

grunted, wrestling with the tiller. “Your heart makes a fine
offer, but….” He trailed off as Merimac gave another shout.
Munro looked at his timekeeper, swore in several languages.

It might have been forever; it might have been a matter

of heartbeats. Taran wasn’t sure of anything other than he
could fairly scent the apprehension and ragged fear. Worst of
all was the watching, feeling as ragingly helpless as he ever
had as the others, all straining muscles, keen ears, and
sharp eyes, hung to their posts… as his lovemate hung
doggedly to the bowsprit, shouting directives and guiding
them through the treacherous waters that he himself had
navigated so many times.

Then, suddenly, it was over.

Geillidh gave one last yaw, shuddered and banged, then

righted and slid smoothly into the downstream current. She
was once more graceful and steady, powered only by the
push of the Strait as it dropped away aft.

“Stand down,” Odina ordered, but there was a quaver in

her voice. The oar-mates racked their tools and collapsed
forward on them, sides heaving, Ropes were set for quiet
running. Munro leaned heavily against the tiller, his hands
shaking upon it.

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At the bow, Merimac crawled backward from his perch,

twisted, then slid to his buttocks on the deck, burying his
face in his hands.

For long heartbeats, silence hung over Geillidh.

Taran wanted to speak Merimac’s name, say

something—anything!—the sudden atmosphere of defeat and
despair was that unnerving. But his own throat wouldn’t
work.

Abruptly Merimac raised his head, rocked to his feet.

Gone was the momentary surrender and powerlessness; his
mouth was drawn thin and his jaw set hard, his eyes storm-
dark and set. With a quick, angry motion, he unclipped his
harness and strode determinedly to the galley’s starboard
edge.

Munro had left the tiller in the hands of another

Wyrmate; he was leaning over the railing.

From over his shoulder Merimac snapped at Odina and

Tolly, “Go. Now.”

Tolly was already halfway to the hole leading down.

Odina ran after, and they both disappeared into the galley’s
hold.

Nipok, one of the riggers closest to Taran’s own age,

came to Taran’s side and gave him a worried glance. That
look was scrawled over the faces of every member of
Geillidh’s crew. They all hung in wait—heads cocked to
listen, Taran suddenly realized, for the sound of water
sucking into wood.

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Munro clipped another stayline to Merimac’s harness.

Merimac climbed the railing and shinnied down headfirst,
one of the stout oar-mates slowly deploying the line.

Silence hung once more, so heavily that Taran wanted

to scream.

All that was visible of Merimac was his broad, brown

ankles and feet.

“Mac?” Munro finally rasped out.

“Take me up!” came Merimac’s voice; he was obeyed and

swung back over the rail. He swayed for a heartbeat as the
blood rushed from his head, then said, slowly, “No breaks
visible, but she’s torn ugly and there’s no telling—”

Tolly came running up from the hold, and Merimac

tensed, clearly expecting the worst. Tolly, however, was
smiling, broad and triumphant.

“No sign, Wyr-chieftain—not even a trickle!”

It was as if a too-taut wire had snapped. Several

Wyrmates gave a glad cry; Nipok gave Taran a grateful and
hard clout on the shoulder, which Taran gladly returned.
Munro slumped against the rail and wiped a hand across his
pate. Merimac strode forward and gave Tolly a hard, quick
hug; Odina came running up-deck, pumping her fists in
victory.

It was only then Taran realized that he’d all but stopped

breathing. He took a dizzy gasp of air and leaned back
against the hold wall, trembling all over. His armpits were
scraped raw from dangling in the harness, and his hands

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17

stung. He opened them slowly—they protested such
movement with more pain—and found his fingers grey-white,
his palms burned from the stayline.

Looking up, he found Merimac’s eyes upon him, tired

and full of question. Taran nodded, albeit shakily, rewarded
by a weary but fond smile.

“N

OT

tonight.”

“Ai, please?”

Silence. Then, “You know I love you, lad, but I think all

my pointed intentions were used up thisSun.”

Geillidh floated quietly, anchored in a small lee some

distance downRiver of the Strait. NextSun’s rising would see
them making port where repairs to the ship could be made; for
now, the night held the taut quiet of a storm’s aftermath. The
chieftain’s hold was unlit, curtains drawn over the portholes,
both of its occupants gladly enwombed in the still and the dark.

“It’s just…” Taran trailed off, then murmured, “I didn’t

understand, not really. Now I do. And… I was scared.”

“You’d be a fool not to be,” Merimac assured softly, “in

that passage of water.”

“I was scared for you.”

A pause, then, “Ai, well. Go to sleep, love.”

A rustle, a slide of fingertips on skin, and insistent

kisses in the dark.

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18

“Taran. I appreciate the thought, truly and I do, but I’m

thinking I’ll just fall asleep before either one of us can be
bothered to rise it.”

Silence again. Then, very softly, “Please? I… I can’t stop

thinking, and I… I don’t want to. To think too much. Not
now.”

A low, inventive curse. Then, “Ai, all right.”

T

HEY

didn’t stop in the next port, or the next, but the fourth

stop downRiver saw Geillidh hauling in beside the most
elaborate port Taran had seen since he’d left home. The
village had an enormous repair dock complete with a
massive wooden crane and winches; Geillidh’s Wyrmates had
berthed her, offloaded what they could to lighten her, then
hauled her up from the water and set to repairing the
damage done to her starboard hull.

Taran might have only been aboard just over a for’night,

but it felt odd to be landbound again. It seemed Earth rocked
beneath his feet, more chancy than rough main, jealous of
his time away. Watch was set over their temporarily
landlocked home, but that home had to be evacuated while
she was being set to rights. Munro had found
accommodations for all in a longhouse managed by the
village chieftain’s first daughter. They called it a “hostel”,
Taran was informed and, even more peculiar, the length of it
had been permanently divided into separate rooms for the
many transients that came through. Hot baths were much
requested—taken in a smaller, separate place just behind
the main cedar-hewn hostel—not only because of the rarity

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19

of such aboard ship, but because of the long Sun’s passages
spent replacing shredded planking, sanding and filling,
using sap and tar and hemp for waterproofing.

Taran swore he left a small sapling’s worth of wood dust

ringed about the deep birchbark tub after each stint at
Geillidh’s hull.

Merimac himself spent little time at the dock other than

brief supervisory visits. During those, it was plain he was
fretting over the damage done to his ship, less than happy
about not seeing to her himself. Instead, he and Munro
spent much of that time closeted in their space at the hostel,
doing business with several traders. These included the
town’s leading merchant, the chieftain himself, as well as his
daughter, a few itinerants, and—the last to arrive but the
seemingly most welcome—a thoroughly disreputable
character perched atop an overloaded conveyance pulled by
a furry pair of sorrel oxen. It was Tolly who disabused Taran
of the theory that the character—merely called Harlon—was
up to no good. In fact, Harlon was quite of the good sort—
particularly if “goods” meant those he carried in his
rattletrap lodge-on-wheels.

The upshot of those lengthy discussions was

considerable trade: warm, woolen garments and tapestries
from the finest of NoonLands’ weavers, soft-tanned leathers
from DuskLands, two barrels of fine ceremonial tobacco, and
a cartload of seed grain were transported to the merchant’s
storage. The hostel’s cellars took delivery of several tuns of
DawnLands cider stored in Geillidh’s hold. These items were
paid for, not in trade as much of their business had so far
been done, but in hard currency, snips of copper and silver.

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

20

Taran had watched in fascination as Munro and Merimac sat
up quite late one night, going over their earnings in the room
Taran and Mac shared: Munro painstakingly keeping tally as
Merimac counted then stowed the considerable tender, not,
as Taran would have suspected, in a strong box, but in a
many-pocketed, wide leather belt that he wore beneath his
sleeveless tunic. The strong box would be employed,
Merimac assured him, once things were back to normal and
they were once again aboard ship. Until then, the hard-
earned pay was kept against Merimac’s skin, and when his
best knife wasn’t strapped to his thigh, it was kept beneath
his bolster, close to hand. He insisted Taran do the same.

The choicest of items from Geillidh, however—including

several dusty, fluted bottles from Merimac’s own personal
stash—were set aside for Harlon. This special treatment
confirmed itself as warranted; no rare bits of metal exchanged
hands during the tactile and extensive negotiations, but
excitement buzzed as Harlon unloaded his wagon next to
Geillidh after the Sunrise she’d been lowered back into River.
Revealed one by one were several casks of downLands cane
liquor—which Nipok gleefully informed Taran was hard to get
under the best of circumstances—a box of well-honed knives
and daggers, as well as other useful utensils of outLand
make, all wrapped in oiled cloth, a long, flat box that by its
smell could only be assorted spices, and several barrels, those
so lightweight that they, but for the bulk, could have been
carried by one person. All of this was taken down to
Merimac’s own hold—normal practice for special cargo.

Taran had not, until now, been privy to the opening of

such.

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

21

“What a find!” Merimac crowed as he unwrapped a soft

length of fabric from its bolt. It shimmered, various depths of
cerulean and indigo, in the Sunlight filtering from the frosted
aft windows. The barrels held fine cloth goods the like of
which Taran had rarely seen. “Wormweave, from Tarhu.
They call it selc, there.” The outLand word was flat, less
pleasing than their own talk. “Cost me a pretty piece, but
we’ll get it back. For one, my brother’s lifemate will give her
eyeteeth for this sort of thing, and I just might be persuaded
to make her do so.” He flashed a wolfish grin.

“Tarhu?” Taran blinked and looked up from his spot on

the rug, where he had been helping catalogue the spices—
with a heavenly sniff of each one. “But that’s—”

“Ai, farther through outLands than either of us will ever

go. Dangerous country, there; I’ve heard they wean their
bairns on arrow points instead of sugar teats. You’ll find”—
Merimac ran the fabric carefully over his callused hands—
”that the farther downRiver we travel, the more likelihood we
have of finding such things. Geillidh brings a lot of foreign
treasures into thisLand.” Suddenly he flicked the fabric over
Taran’s shoulder; it curled about his neck and runnelled
sensuously down the dark chestnut pony’s-tail at his nape.
“It matches your eyes, lad.”

The selc felt good against his cheek, soft as a rabbit pelt,

and when Merimac pulled it away, Taran was sorry.

“I think I will keep some of this back for you; a nice

tunic to go beneath that indigo longcoat of yours, eh?”
Merimac grinned at him and began to wrap the wormweave
in its plain muslin casing.

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

22

“So now you’re in charge of my attire?” Taran said wryly,

though with a small, odd thrill. Clothes had always seemed
more necessity than anything resembling fun; the knowledge
that Merimac thought of him in such a fashion sustained the
strange mix of overwhelming excitement that had begun
when he’d run away from his foster home.

“We do have standards on this ship, you know,” was

Merimac’s teasing response. “And that lovely cloth would do
you justice, my heart. You’re not that big around, so only a
piece would do the trick, and none back home any the wiser
that you’re wearing the price of a well-trained riding horse.
An extremely well-trained riding horse,” he amended, again
with that lopsided grin.

“Until they see me wearing it.”

“And that’ll have its own bit of fun, eh?”

Taran couldn’t stop the smirk that claimed his mouth.

“And what will you steal from the shipment?”

“I can’t be stealing what’s mine,” Merimac said severely.

“And until it’s traded it is mine. I’ve just a bit of personal
credit into this little venture, you know.”

“I saw you hand over some of your precious uisge.”

Taran grinned.

“That hurt.” Merimac was emphatic. “No chance to get

more for a while, you know.” He uncovered and held up
another bolt of cloth—a rich, gold-shot burgundy. “But this,”
he crooned. “This is just the thing, and mayhap worth the
pain of going short on good liquor. And speaking of good
liquor….” He tossed the fabric across their hammock.

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

23

“We’ve had a rough for’night. I think it’s time for a little

relaxation. Go up-deck and strike the bell.”

“F

OR

a revel, for a tangle with a threesome, four or

more,

“Or in the roughest weather, clear and ringing
through the roar,

“’Tis a call for all to gather, or retreat a deadly firth
“The bell is struck for fair or foul—!”

“I’m thinking more’s fair here!” Merimac lifted his mug

in proof. There was a roar of approval from his companions,
and Odina tipped her own mug to him, continuing her song:

“For good, for what it’s worth!”

“Good!” her Wyrmates all shouted back.

“Gather up, gather out, to dance or face the blow!”

“Blow me!” was young Nipok’s cheeky and somewhat

drunken plea. Tolly smacked him, and Odina gave him the
two-finger salute but kept singing.

“If dancin’s not your pleasure, ai, there’s others we

all know—”

Another clash of rowdy yips and bawls.

“Unplait your hair, unknot your belts, and song will

do the rest, so—
“Strike the bell, fair chieftain—gi’ us all a rest!”

Laughter and cheers greeted the song’s end. Odina gave

a dip of her head, rose and replenished her drink.

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

24

Taran sat on a tall barrel between Merimac and Odina,

swinging his feet in time to the music and joining in when
appropriate—and when his mouth wasn’t occupied with his
own mug. His first shakedown, and his first taste of cane-
liquor; the latter was sweet as crystallized honey and purled
down his throat to blossom heat in his belly.

It was turning out to be quite the gathering. There were

Wyrmates in the rigging, on the forecastle, on the railings, on
barrels like Taran’s own seat: just reward for a hard passage
and all the harder work in repairs to their fine and fair Geillidh.

Taran downed the rest of his drink and smiled, content.

Lanterns had been hung, more for the attractive glow of

them against Geillidh’s rigging than any true need for light
beneath the gravid glow of the twin Moons. Blown pipes and
stringed komincheh skirled up into clear diamond-and-ebon.
One of the lads kept time on a small frame, and Munro had
his deep-drum, sounding a bass heartbeat. Everyone sang,
some rough and loud, others more sweetly; Odina had quite
the voice and could project it almost into Sky’s grasp. Pottery
mugs clanked against wood, hands clapped loudly, all in
approbation and entreaty, and the cook, Dav, had
thoughtfully provided a table groaning with snacks.

“More!” Nipok kept shouting; none of them were sure

whether he meant song or drink, and Taran laughed to see
his new friend so animated. Then Taran realized his mug
was empty, and cheer evaporated. He stared at the mug
forlornly and tipped it over, to have only a few drops run
down his thumb. He licked it and peered into his mug again,
quite devastated.

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

25

“I do believe you need a bit more of this,” Merimac

purred at his nape, scooping up Taran’s mug. Taran
brightened at such prospect of rescue from his liquorless
state—not that having Merimac breathe in his ear didn’t also
have its prospects, and those little to do with drinking.

But Merimac merely turned away, Taran’s mug in hand.

With a mutter that sounded somewhat like “Hang on,” Taran
reached out, grabbed at Merimac’s tunic. Merimac blinked
and turned curiously; about them, their Wyrmates were
winding down their song, but Taran was paying no attention
to that.

“I believe”—Taran reached out and twined a finger in the

tangled, bistre locks at Merimac’s nape—“that I do. Need a
bit more.”

Merimac leaned close—ai, this was more like it. “Is there

anything,” he asked, liquor-scented breath tickling at
Taran’s cheek, “that doesn’t make you rutty, lad?”

Taran lifted his chin with what he thought was adequate

hauteur. “I am just trying to appreciate….” He paused
grandly for emphasis. “…exactly what it is you’re offering.”

The song had stopped and his words were not quiet.

There was a spate of well-lubricated giggles.

“And what are you offering the lad, my chieftain?” Odina

teased. Tolly gave a suggestive yip, and sure enough, others
all took up the cry.

“Ai, Wyr-chieftain!”

“There’s a bell needs striking!”

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

26

“Been long, has it?”

“And well past time our bold leader plunged his oar in

the water! Best watch yerself, lad, ’tis said he’s a mighty
powerful stroke!”

“An’ a fine straight-up rhythm, I’ll wager—no need t’

bother callin’ the catches!”

“We’ve all been getting more than Himself—’til young

Taran came aboard, that is!”

“I’ve offered a few times meself, but no luck!”

“Now, just hold on!” Taran let go of Merimac’s hair,

shoved himself off the barrel and onto his feet for emphasis,
addressing the last speaker in particular. “You’re going to
have to find someone else. He’s mine.”

Beside him, Merimac was doubled over with noisy

mirth; their Wyrmates were roaring, and Taran forgot
indignation and started laughing himself. One of the oar-
mates held up his mug and announced, with much effort
and a singing voice that would have ensured good trade on a
fancy-dancer’s circuit:

“Our newest lookout’s young and bold,
“His Suns and Moons are full,
“Of contemplating cocks ’n’ rocks—
“And not outside the hull!”

More boisterous laughter and catcalls. Merimac

staggered—more with laughter than with drink—over to the
cask, filled Taran’s mug, and brought it back to him. “Here,
love.” He nearly had to shout over the noisy pleasure of their

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

27

companions. “Drink first. Get liquored up and pliable, and
we’ll see what comes from that.”

“Hopefully you, Wyr-chieftain.” Taran grinned back,

unrepentant. Merimac snorted, flicked Taran’s nose with a
forefinger.

“Wretch. You’re too clever even when you’re lit like a fat

candle.”

Taran once again grabbed Merimac’s tunic, pulled him

into a rather-sloppy kiss, then let him go with a sideways
smirk and took a pull of his drink. There was another round
of appreciative shouting.

“Good thing our Geillidh en’t sailing!” Munro gave good-

natured retort. Bending to his drum, he pounded out a
steady beat, two slow and three quickened, and began a
lively three-and-three solo.

Merimac started humming in his smooth baritone, a

wordless, wilding sound rising up into the rigging. Several
others joined in; the oar-mate holding the komincheh began
to strum in time, and soon the music spiraled faster and
faster. Nipok started dancing, lithely agile, tow-streaked hair
gleaming. Another of the younger Wyrmates joined him.

Taran usually liked to dance. But now he was too busy

tonguing Merimac’s ear.

Merimac raised his mug. “Tonight,” he said, half to

Taran, half to their companions, “is going to prove
interesting.”

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

28

G

REY

-rose light was beginning to peep over the horizon. One

by one—some in twos or threes—Geillidh’s played-out
Wyrmates wandered off the deck, some to sleep, some not to,
most of them with a last libation in their mugs and a wobble
to their walk. A few sat in one corner, still singing.

Taran had returned to the down-aft hold—only after

receiving a promise that Merimac would not be much
longer—and a quick burst of song traveled down as the door
opened, then muted as it snicked shut. There was the sound
of steps, somewhat heavy, traveling down the stair. Taran
grinned and stood, a bit clumsy himself, wrapping a blanket
about him, homing in on the shadowy figure’s approach.
He’d waited long enough; being coy was no virtue when he
had been sporting a too-tight clout since his lover had
breathed in his ear some time before.

Merimac was obviously well into his cups, and just as

obviously not averse to being approached by a willing and
well-lubricated lad. Taran snuggled up to him, tilted his
head, closed his eyes, and opened his mouth. Merimac
tasted of liquor and spicebread, smelled of heat and light
sweat. Taran felt arms wrap him close, shivered delightedly
as Merimac rucked up the blanket he still wore and trailed
fingers down his hip.

“Lovely,” he said, and the profuse satisfaction in his

voice sent a delightful buzz up and down Taran’s spine. “You
aren’t wearing anything under this, are you, my heart?”

Taran knew the question was rhetorical, because

Merimac’s hands were suddenly quite busy beneath that
blanket, trailing over every inch of bare skin.

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29

“Dancing is my pleasure, but there's another I may

know,” Taran said thickly, snaking his arms about
Merimac’s neck. The blanket fell half down his back.

“I do believe you might, at that,” was Merimac’s answer,

murmured into his ear. “What say you show me?”

Merimac had gotten too warm during all the singing and

dancing, so his tunic was already open and hanging at his
sides, showing a nice expanse of well-muscled, bronzed
chest and an elaborate indigo-and-ebon tattoo leading down
and beneath what Taran personally considered the best part:
clout lacings. Quite a handsome bulge was starting beneath
leather and cloth; Taran could barely wait to stroke it
harder. Somewhat impatiently, Merimac yanked the blanket
from Taran, letting it drop to the floor just as Taran divested
him of his clout.

“That,” Merimac breathed as Taran’s fingers fastened

onto him, quick and eager, “is nice.”

“Everything is spinning,” Taran murmured, running a

gentle fingertip up and down the underside of Merimac’s
erection, which lurched in response.

“The many mugs you consumed might have something

to do with that… ai.” Merimac kissed him, rubbed noses with
him, whispered, “Do not be sickening now, fair one. Pleading
am I, for you to keep on.”

“Do you always fall into old-fashioned tongues when

you’re drunk?” Taran accompanied his query with another
smooth stroke of hardening flesh, gently slid a finger across
the slickening tip.

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30

“Indeed. I use my tongue quite well even when I’m

drunk.” Merimac knelt down and proceeded to prove his
point.

It was a good thing they were somewhat close to the

supporting beam in the hold’s mid-section; Taran’s knees
buckled as that warm mouth covered him, as one of
Merimac’s hands splayed across his belly. Taran wobbled
back, found the beam, and leaned heavily against it;
somehow that mouth went with him, lips sliding back and
tongue teasing. Taran groaned, tangled his fingers hard in
bistre hair, pulled. Obligingly, Merimac took him deeper,
curled his hands about Taran’s hips, and pinned him harder
against the beam.

“Ai, my chieftain,” Taran gasped, tipsily playing the

game Merimac had started. “Pleading I shall be, take me
now, gentle.”

Unfortunately, his timing was not very good. That

incredibly agile mouth pulled from him, leaving him wet and
quivering, and Merimac peered upward at him, brows a-quirk.

“Gentle?”

“Well….” Antique dialect was thrown aside as too

complicated, particularly when it wasn’t getting Taran what
he wanted. Clutching his fingers tighter in Merimac’s hair,
Taran tugged, trying to encourage him. “It… it sounded
better than… than ‘kindly drive me into this post so hard it
would take a prybar to win me free’.”

Merimac laughed. Taran grinned and started to—then

Merimac leaned forward once again and it choked into a

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31

hopeful sigh. Unfortunately, instead of directing his mouth
where Taran tried to steer him, Merimac gave Taran’s belly a
kiss. Then another. And yet another.

Not that he didn’t mind having his stomach nuzzled, but

there were better things to be doing. “Mac,” Taran growled,
“please? I think—”

“I think,”—Merimac ran a line of kisses down—“that you

need,”—a trace of breath along lurching, impatient flesh—“to
shut it.” He licked a slow line from root to tip, and it was
only those hands on his hips that kept Taran from falling
down on the spot.

Teasing nibbles melded into caressing lips and swirling

tongue, then suction. Taran tangled his fingers harder, rolled
his hips forward, then back. Merimac allowed the motion,
moving his hands to cup Taran’s haunches, clenching and
releasing with the muscles there. Taran threw his head back
against the beam, husky whimpers voicing themselves in
rhythm with each stroke… and again… and….

Merimac pulled away—instigating another whimper, this

of protest—but he rose and leaned into Taran, pushing him
against the wood at his back, lined up belly to belly, thigh to
thigh, his hands grasping Taran’s wrists and snaking them
backward about the beam. “So, my lovely,” Merimac purred,
“how do you really want it?”

“Now,” Taran demanded, lurching up against him.

“Insistent and insatiable, that’s my lad. But you really

haven’t answered my question.”

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32

“Do I have to turn about, or can you fuck me this way,

here?”

Merimac chuckled. “Drink really unhinges that tongue

of yours, doesn’t it?”

“I like to look at you when we—”

“Patience.” Merimac pushed away from him, padded

over to the bed, and came back with the innocuous-seeming
jar that never failed to set Taran’s nerves all a-tingle. “Shall
you do the honors, or shall I?”

Ai, let me, let me… and Merimac read it in his face,

unscrewed the cap, and let Taran dig his fingers in. Barely
giving Merimac time to recap it, Taran reached down, curled
his hand in a slick tunnel about Merimac’s erection, and
pumped back and forth several times. Merimac gave a
delicious shudder, looked at the jar in his hand, shrugged,
and lobbed it over at the bed.

“All right then… over here.” Merimac shifted Taran

about the beam a few steps, slid his hands down about
Taran’s haunches, and with a grunt lifted him up. “You’ve
gained half a stone and all of it muscle; take pity on an old
drunken sailor and help out. Look up.”

Taran did so, still not loosening his grip one whit, and

smirked as he saw a projection from the beam—the
beginnings of a large limb that had not been smoothed away.
He reached up with one hand and grabbed it, shifted his
pelvis against Merimac, pumped his fingers once more.
“Come on. I’ve been patient—”

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

33

“That you have, and you deserve a bit of fun for that,

don’t you?” Merimac answered, reaching down and smoothing
his hand over Taran’s belly, and down. Taran gasped as those
fingers took him firmly, sliding back and forth; his own fingers
relaxed on Merimac in shaky response. With his other hand,
Merimac trailed up to Taran’s hip, then down to the back of
his thigh, and before Taran knew what was happening, his leg
had been lifted to settle over Merimac’s arm.

Dark grey eyes fastened to Taran’s, teeth gleamed in the

faint light. “Hang on.”

Fingers, trailing from Taran’s erection and down over

his testicles, then even further, slicking into the cleft
between his haunches and inward… Taran jerked against
Merimac, husked his name.

“More?” was a whisper against his forehead.

“Ai….”

Another slow twist-push of those fingers, the feel of

Merimac’s erection bumping against his own, that capable
mouth claiming his, tongue darting gently at his lower lip
then tracing a heated line down to his throat; Taran writhed
with pure pleasure and frustration.

“If you don’t fuck me, and now, I’m going to scream,” he

voiced hoarsely.

“Let’s say I fuck you, now, and you still scream,” was

the soft reply. Taran took in another gout of breath as
Merimac hitched him up higher and touched Taran’s slick
hand still wrapped about him, albeit loosely. “Where do you
want me, love?”

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

34

Taran wrapped his other leg about Merimac’s waist and

with his hand guided him. Merimac pushed forward, through
Taran’s hand and slowly inward, deeper. Taran juddered and
sucked in a sobbing breath. His hand flattened, caught
between buttocks and belly; he slid that hand out, reached
up and grabbed at the protrusion above, arched his back.
His breath came out in a hoarse grunt as a slow push slid
Merimac farther in.

“Not a scream, not yet,” Merimac purred. “I’ll work a bit

harder, shall I?”

“Harder,” groaned Taran, “harder would be… ai…

harder would be… good….”

He could feel Merimac’s grin, fleeting against his cheek,

felt it open into a stutter and catch of breath as he rolled his
hips against Taran… still slow… almost unbearably slow…
but now with a solid, grindy shove at the end of each stroke
that sent spangles of bliss up and down Taran’s spine.
Fingers tugged at his upswept knee, pulled him even closer,
while the other hand tangled tight in his hair; the staggered
breaths at his throat became murmurs… soft and delicious
promises/threats… the slide of lips and tongue along the
cords of his neck became teeth, gloriously sharp and
deliberate nips, delivered with sensate timing to each hard
thrust… ever… so… slow….

He was going to die. He was going to die, here and now,

of some unforeseen and amazing mélange of craving and
perfection, and all his throat could manage to utter was
small whimpers and growls and something that sounded
like, “P-please….”

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

35

Merimac hefted him higher against the beam, angled his

hips—just so—and gave another thrust, hard. This time a
jolt of lightning zigzagged up Taran’s spine—he was sure it
would scorch the wood—and his breath hitched, burst
outward in a sob.

“Getting closer, then?” Merimac breathed, fingers

tightening, tangling as he did it again. And again, pace
quickening from slow push/pull/twist to hard, fast, fuck-
the-brain-from-your-skull relentlessness. From behind, the
wood scraped Taran’s bare spine; to the fore an altogether
different friction captured him and pulled slick tears from
where he was angled, rock-hard flesh clasped and sliding
between their bodies. A heated tempo of bronzed skin and
muscle bunched and released and bunched again between
Taran’s thighs; encroachment fast impaling him into bliss,
jerking and snatching sensation from him. Taran shuddered,
clenched tighter, his throat tightening on the words more
and harder, and as Merimac drove even faster, ai, don’t stop,
don’tstopdon’tstop —

This time he did cry out, smothered against Merimac’s

fingers, as lights flashed behind his eyes and it seemed to
last forever, forever… as Merimac shuddered against him,
groaned into his neck, and finally as they both slid down the
post into a pile of gasping breaths, and sweat-wet skin, and
limbs that no longer wanted to work.

Some time later, they were aware of the fact that Sun

had fully broken over the surrounding trees, sending slats of
rose-white light through the aft panes. Birds were in full
voice. River muttered as well, sloshing gently against the
hull; that hull creaked her own sweet song. Taran lay on the

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

36

floor atop Merimac, who, flat on his back, served as an
impromptu cushion. Taran had a damp, warmed cloth in his
hand and was slowly drawing it over the sated, sticky
remainder of what had so thoroughly taken him. Try as he
might, though, it remained flaccid.

“Only you could make an erotic game of wiping me

clean,” Merimac said drowsily. “Cheeky.”

“Hunh. Do me next? And then, with just a bit more

effort, it could be my turn to take you.” Taran leaned forward
and gave his lover a kiss with much intent behind it. “I like
being on top as much as I like it the other way, you know.
It’s my turn. Only fair.”

“Being drunk obviously doesn’t interfere with your libido.”

“It does yours, though.” Obvious disappointment.

“We have thisnight, rutty one. And the night after that.

And the night after that.”

“That’s such a long time away.”

“Only to a lad. Wank a bit if you have to, but let me

sleep, eh?”

“Ai, all right.”

And over Geillidh, despite the dawn, all was silence.

About the Author

J.

T

ULLOS

H

ENNIG

has had varied professions over a

lifetime—artist, dancer, teacher, equestrian—but has never
successfully managed to not be a writer. J. Tullos is blessed
with an understanding spouse, kids, and grandkids, is
alternately plagued and blessed with a small herd of horses
and a geriatric collie….

And has, for the entirety of that lifetime, been possessed by a
press gang of invisible ‘friends’ who Will. Not. S.T.F.U.

Correspondence

welcomed

through

the

website:

jtulloshennig.net

and email:

[e-mail]

Copyright

Strike the Bell ©Copyright J. Tullos Hennig, 2012

Published by
Dreamspinner Press
382 NE 191st Street #88329
Miami, FL 33179-3899 USA

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the
authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Art by J. Tullos Hennig jtulloshennig.net
Cover Design by Anne Cain [e-mail]

This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is
illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon
conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No
part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the publisher. To
request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press at: 382 NE 191st Street
#88329 Miami, FL 33179-3899 USA

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

Released in the United States of America
May 2012

eBook Edition
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61372-487-3