Strike the Bell

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

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.

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

“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

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

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.

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

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

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

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.”

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

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

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

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.

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

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

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

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.

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

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

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

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….

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

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

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

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.

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

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.

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

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

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

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

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.

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

“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.”

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

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

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

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

“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

“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

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

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

“F

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

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

“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

“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

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

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.

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

“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.

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

“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

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

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.”

Strike the Bell | J. Tullos Hennig

“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

“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

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

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

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

ULLOS

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:

JTH@jtulloshennig.net

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   annecain.art@gmail.com

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

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