He vanished from Karsa’s line of sight.

The Teblor waited, racked with shivering as the sea slowly embraced him. The level had reached his ears, muting all sounds other than the turgid swirl of water. He watched the four lengths of rope slowly growing tighter above him.

It was difficult to recall a time when his limbs had been free to move without restraint, when his raw, suppurating wrists had not known the implacable iron grip of shackles, when he had not felt – deep in his withered body – a vast weakness, a frailty, his blood flowing as thin as water. He closed his eyes and felt his mind falling away.

Away...

Urugal, I stand before you once more. Before these faces in the rock, before my gods. Urugal—

‘I see no Teblor standing before me. I see no warrior wading through his enemies, harvesting souls. I do not see the dead piled high on the ground, as numerous as a herd of bhederin driven over a cliff. Where are my gifts? Who is this who claims to serve me?’

Urugal. You are a bloodthirsty god—

‘A truth a Teblor warrior revels in!’

As I once did. But now, Urugal, I am no longer so sure—

‘Who stands before us? Not a Teblor warrior! Not a servant of mine!’

Urugal. What are these ‘bhederin’ you spoke of? What are these herds? Where among the lands of the Teblor—

‘Karsa!’

He flinched. Opened his eyes.

Torvald Nom, a burlap sack over one shoulder, was climbing back down. His feet made contact with the raft, pushing it a fraction deeper. Water stung the outside corners of Karsa’s eyes.

The sack made numerous clunking sounds as the Daru set it down and reached inside. ‘Tools, Karsa! A shipwright’s tools!’ He drew forth a chisel and an iron-capped mallet.

The Teblor felt his heart begin pounding hard in his chest.

Torvald set the chisel against a chain link, then began hammering.

A dozen swings, the concussions pealing loudly in the still, murky air, then the chain snapped. Its own weight swiftly dragged it through the iron ring of Karsa’s right wrist shackle. Then, with a soft rustle, it was gone beneath the sea’s surface. Agony lanced through his arm as he attempted to move it. The Teblor grunted, even as consciousness slipped away.

He awoke to the sounds of hammering, down beside his right foot, and thundering waves of pain, through which he heard, dimly, Torvald’s voice.

‘... heavy, Karsa. You’ll need to do the impossible. You’ll need to climb. That means rolling over, getting onto your hands and knees. Standing. Walking – oh, Hood, you’re right, I’ll need to think of something else. No food anywhere on this damned ship.’ There was a loud crack, then the hiss of a chain falling away. ‘That’s it, you’re free. Don’t worry, I’ve retied the ropes to the platform itself – you won’t sink. Free. How’s it feel? Never mind – I’ll ask that a few days from now. Even so, you’re free, Karsa. I promised, didn’t I? Let it not be said that Torvald Nom doesn’t hold to his – well, uh, let it not be said that Torvald Nom isn’t afraid of new beginnings.’