Again he found the deck empty. The waters of the Sea of Dread remained calm – unnaturally so. Any body of water of its size ought to have considerable waves. The sky above was darkening into twilight. Stars shone through and Burl blinked and rubbed his eyes as he gazed at them: he recognized none of the constellations. Where was the Rudder? The Cart? The Great Cowl? It was as if he were staring up at another sky.

He spun, raising his sword: for a moment he’d been certain someone was behind him. Indeed, he still had that prickling feeling that someone was watching him. Glancing about to be sure he was alone, he sheathed the sword, then started up the rigging. This time no one challenged him. He reached the crow’s nest and peeked within: empty. Perhaps what he’d heard had been a splash. He climbed back down.

Everywhere he checked it was the same: doors that were formerly locked and barred now hung open. None showed any sign of having been hacked or forced. The stores and armoury were empty, as was the hold. As far as he could determine Whellen and he were now the only two souls on board the Strike.

He returned to the mid-deck.

This time he was not alone. Another stood at the side, facing away out over the limpid waves. A familiar blanket lay draped about his shoulders: Whellen.

So. Now it was his turn. Someone had slain the rest of all the souls on board and now only the two of them were left alive. And Burl knew it wasn’t him; he raised his weapon and advanced upon the man. ‘You’ll not find me so terrified,’ he called.

Whellen turned and Burl was surprised by his expression. He’d expected a snarl or gloating, but the man just looked sad and worn. He wasn’t even armed.

‘I’ve been dreaming,’ he said, and his gaze slid away to the sea.

This drew Burl up short. The blade quivered as he shook. ‘Dreaming? Dreaming of what?’

‘Of dread.’

Now he was certain the man was mad. He’d harboured an insane murderer. Against all the crew’s exhortations, he’d sheltered the man. What a fool he’d been. He probably deserved to die far more than they. He clenched the shortsword in both hands but still it shuddered. ‘Why?’ he managed, his throat almost choked off, so dry was it.

‘Why?’ Whellen echoed, thoughtful, his gaze still narrowed upon the iron-grey waters. Then that gaze shifted to Burl and in it he read only the grief that bowed the man’s shoulders. He appeared sorrowful beyond tears. ‘You think I did all this,’ he murmured, and gestured to indicate the ship.

‘Who else?’

‘Not you then?’ he asked, and a sort of weak smile plucked at his lips, as if acknowledging a poor joke.

Burl swallowed his terror and redoubled his sweaty grip upon the blade. ‘What kind of lunacy is that? Listen to yourself.’