“Fodder for the benches,” Scyld said. “Take them.” He chuckled. “And see that they’re chained to the same oar.”
Callus looked at Carse and Boghaz, then smiled lazily and gestured with the bottle. “Get aft, carrion,” he grunted and let the lash run out.
Carse glared at him out of red eyes and snarled. Boghaz gripped the Earthman by the shoulder and shook him.
“Come on, fool!” he said. “We’ll get enough beatings without you asking for them.”
He pulled Carse with him, down into the rowers’ pit and forward along the catwalk between the benches.
The Earthman, numbed by shock and exhaustion, was only dimly aware of faces turned to watch them, of the mutter of chains and the smell of the bilges. He only half saw the round curious heads of the two furry creatures who slept on the catwalk and who moved to let them pass.
The last starboard bench facing the stern-castle had only one sleeping man chained to its oar, its other two places being empty. The press-gang stood by until Carse and Boghaz were safely chained.
Then they went off with Scyld. Callus cracked his whip with a sound like a gunshot, apparently as a reminder to all hands, and went forward.
Boghaz nudged Carse in the ribs. Then he leaned over and shook him. But Carse was beyond caring what Boghaz had to say. He was sound asleep, doubled, over the loom of the oar.
Carse dreamed. He dreamed that he was again taking that nightmare plunge through the shrieking infinities of the dark bubble in Rhiannon’s tomb. He was falling, falling—