Dark is the Moon

by Ian Irvine

  Pender cursed, but he said confidently, “It’ll come again. It’s not far to the sea now.”

  They sat there for the rest of the night, anchored against the tide, but the breeze did not return. It was not a pleasant night, dwelling on bel Gorst coming after them. Only at dawn did a zephyr inflate the sails, just enough to move them out into the open sea.

  “At last,” Pender cried. “Let’s be on our way before they come looking for us.”

  “Too late,” Osseion intoned from halfway up the mast, where, incongruously, the massive soldier was keeping watch. “Yellow sail coming down the channel.”

  Pender clambered up. “She’s caught the breeze and coming with it,” he said. “Moving faster than we are, too.”

  The crew ran to their posts. The breeze stirred the sails and The Waif responded, though not with the same spirit as the other boat.

  “It’s her,” Osseion called, “Poniard!”

  “Farsh, farsh, farsh!” Pender only swore when he was extremely worried. He ran to the wheel.

  “What is it?” Tallia asked, resting a hand on his shoulder.

  “She’s bigger than us, and faster, at least in these light airs. She’s a well-crewed boat. Pity we didn’t finish scraping our bottom; we’re dragging a bit.”

  “Is there anything we can do?”

  “Not much,” he said. “Bel Gorst knows these waters better than I do, and the winds too. Pray for a gale, though even then Poniard may be our match.”

  The blue sky was cloudless—no chance of any strong weather. Out to sea they picked up a nor’easter and tacked into it, for after Roros the coastline turned east. They zigzagged along the coast, the bigger boat steadily gaining, while Pender looked grimmer and grimmer. He seemed to shrink, to get shorter and squatter and more miserable. He had everything to lose—and to lose The Waif mattered more to him than his life.

  “How far?” asked Osseion half an hour later. He meant to Twissel, where Pender was to unload the priceless alchemical quicksilver.

  “Not even halfway,” Pender grunted, his shoulders sagging even more.

  They were now passing along a cliffed coastline, the dark rock wet, shiny and forbidding, cut by clefts and narrow inlets, and yawning sea caves into which the big swell burst, but none offered any hope of hiding or escaping.

  It was a long and tedious chase, for at sea everything happens in slow-motion and there was little difference between the two vessels. The Waif picked up a little distance on the port tack then lost it and a bit more on the starboard. With every hour Poniard crept closer. She would overhaul them well before dark. Already she was only a couple of bowshots behind. Two archers stood at her bow, preparing to shoot for the sails.

  “Osseion,” called Tallia, “you draw a mighty bow. Think you can tear their sail from here?”

  “Not yet! But soon I’ll have a go.”

  Shortly, through Pender’s spyglass, they saw the saturnine bel Gorst standing at the rail.

  “Look at him gloating!” cried Pender, almost foaming at the mouth. “Shoot the bugger, Osseion.”

  Osseion drew back his bow, then loosened it again. “Still too far,” he said regretfully.

  “He’s not gaining any more,” said Tallia some time later. “Maybe we have his measure.”

  “I’m afraid not,” Pender replied. “Look, he’s changed the trim of his sails to make us think that. He’s playing with us, keeping just out of bowshot, biding his time until we’re well out of sight of Roros.”

  “I heard that too,” said Osseion. “He loves to torment people.”

  “Is there any way of getting a bit more speed out of The Waif?”

  “Only by throwing the cargo overboard,” Pender said.

  “Better to do that than let him have it,” she said.

  There was a tear in his eye. “I know, I know.”

  They raced on, but made up no ground. Finally Pender groaned. “All right, but the quicksilver last of all. Start the water over the side!” he yelled.

  Tallia ran to the pump and began to discharge their fresh water, while Osseion climbed down into the hold to heave out as much of their ballast—stones—as they could dump without risk of the boat capsizing. The other crew followed, and when the ballast was gone, they lugged the rest of the cargo up—bags of grain, huge flagons of wine and oil, crates of porcelain and dried coconut. With each splash Pender looked sadder and sadder. After an hour and more, all of the cargo was gone save the quicksilver and enough food and drink to do them for a day or two.

  The Waif began to inch ahead of its pursuer. “We’ve done it!” shouted Rustible, banging one fist in the other hand.

  For a while it seemed that they had, then Poniard re-trimmed its sails, now, it seemed, sailing as fast as it could, and began to make up the distance. Soon it hung on their windward quarter, no closer than before but no further either. It was still too long till dark.

  “Get rid of the anchors,” said Pender in a dead voice. “Leave only the smallest.”

  After much grunting and heaving, the two large anchors crashed into the water, and then a smaller one. The distance between the two racing ships began to widen imperceptibly. Then they saw the pirate’s crew hauling up something that had been dragging behind, a weighed-down section of sail. Suddenly, swiftly, the sleek craft began to overhaul them once more.

  “The devil taunts us!” cried Pender, tears of rage running down his unshaven cheeks. “He had a sea anchor out all the while. There’s no hope now. Throw out the quicksilver!”

  Osseion ran down the ladder, to stagger back up with a great iron flask on his shoulder. Wobbling to the side he slid it over the rail into the sea, into which it plunged with a small, high splash. Pender stared at the place for a long time, then abruptly dashed the tears from his cheek and roared, “Send it over, quick!”

  Those hands who were strong enough went below to help with the task. They could see bel Gorst’s bared teeth—Poniard had approached so close—but at the sight of the precious cargo going over the side he roared at his archers and a flight of arrows sang toward them. Pender gave him a two-fingered gesture; the arrows sank into their wake.

  “He didn’t think we’d dump the quicksilver,” said Tallia.

  “Neither did I,” said Pender miserably.

  Osseion snatched up his enormous bow, drew back the string until the muscles corded in his arm, then let it fly. The arrow vanished. Suddenly bel Gorst fell back, jerking at something, then dropped into cover.

  “Ha! See how you like that,” cried Pender.

  “Great shot, Osseion,” said Tallia. “Did you get him?”

  “Very near,” said Pender, peering through the glass. “It went through the sleeve of his coat. He won’t be so bold next time.”

  Tallia ran down the ladder to take her turn. Picking up one of the flasks, she heaved it onto her shoulder, instantly realizing that she wasn’t quite strong enough. The curved iron was a crushing weight on her shoulder-blade. Twice she thought the flask was going to get away from her as she hauled herself one-handed up the ladder. The boat heaved, flinging her sideways and cracking her hand between the flask and the hull. She almost dropped the flask. Only the knowledge that Rustible was underneath kept her hanging on.

  Somehow Tallia forced herself up the ladder with her precious, deadly cargo. As it plummeted over the side, another flock of arrows soared toward them. One actually struck the stern of the boat, drooping down like the tail feathers of a rooster on the chopping block.

  “I’m not strong enough,” she apologized as Osseion staggered by.

  “If anything can be said to be man’s work, this is it,” he gasped.

  On they went, and as the flasks went into the water, once more The Waif began to inch ahead of her pursuer. “Laugh now, you miserable bugger!” Pender whispered. “I’ll bet you’re sorry you didn’t take us when you could.”

  They were rushing along a shore where some of the sea caves had collapsed to form a series of arches, pinnacle
s and rocky islands—a treacherous area simply marked “uncharted” on Pender’s maps. They were sailing close to shore, but at this point Poniard moved further out to sea.

  “Is he doing that to cut off a sudden dash for the open sea, or because of the danger of the shoals?” Pender said to himself.

  “What are our chances now?” asked Tallia.

  “Well, the cargo is gone, and that was more than the value of The Waif. But he’ll still want the boat if he can get it, and bloody revenge on us for the loss of his profit.”

  “Yes, the pirates of Crandor don’t have a pretty reputation. Then if we must die, let’s give him a lesson he’ll never forget.”

  “We’re eight,” said Osseion. “They must have at least twenty on board.”

  “I’ve an idea,” said Pender, “if you trust me to attempt it.”

  “With my life,” said Tallia. “What is it?”

  “I believe we’d have the edge on him downwind. If we were to turn here, we’d lose way and he’d be onto us in a minute. But up ahead"—looking where he was pointing, she spied a group of islands across their path, and others beyond, all cliffed like the shore—"if we went between them, he’d lose sight of us, maybe for long enough for us to turn back to Roros. Then we’ll see who’s faster.”

  “I’m not a sailor, Pender, but won’t we lose our wind as we go between the islands?”

  “Somewhat,” he replied, rubbing his chin bristles. “What I plan to do is tack a bit further out to sea, as though I am going around the islands, then on the last tack, dart through the gap between the two biggest. Because he’s further to sea, it’ll be difficult for him to do the same—those islands out there will be in his way. After we do that, he’ll have to guess whether we’ve gone on to Twissel or turned back to Roros, eh!”

  “What if he guesses right and turns back straight away?”

  “Then we’re finished! Hey, Rustible, come here.”

  They went into a huddle, reviewing the state of the tide, the probability of wind and currents being weaker between the islands, or stronger, the draught of The Waif compared to Poniard, surely less with the cargo and some of the ballast gone, and other technical matters that Tallia had no appreciation of.

  They were now beating up into the wind on the last tack. The Waif edged a little further ahead, just out of bowshot. Poniard turned to cover her, moving further out to sea in the hope of catching a stronger breeze. Just ahead was a cluster of small rocky islands, then to their right two larger ones, cliffed all around and with flat tops covered with scrub. Beyond the right-hand one was a chain of smaller islands.

  They passed inside the cluster, then turned smoothly on the port tack, picking up the wind and surging forward. Tallia ran to the rail, watching the other boat. It turned as well, staying seaward of the island cluster.

  The tension on Pender’s face was mirrored on the rest of the crew. Everything depended on what bel Gorst did next. Pender had been rather clever, Tallia saw, as they ran toward the gap between the two larger islands. Beyond them, the cliffed coast turned sharply south, a shortcut to Twissel and the wind more to their advantage, if they could get there. Bel Gorst must be worried now, knowing that if they got through first they could turn back or pick up the wind and be well away to their destination, while he either went round the long way or worked his way through the islands.

  “What’s he going to do?” Pender cried, screwing up his face in his agony. He turned sharply, heading between the two larger islands toward the cliffed coastline beyond. They picked up speed with the wind.

  “He’s starting to turn,” Rustible shouted. Pender swore and Tallia’s heart sank. “No, he’s going straight on, around the outside.”

  Pender let out a whoop. They drifted into the lee of the island, eddies flapped the sails, then the wind died completely. Momentum carried them on, drifting dangerously close to the rocks. Osseion and Rustible stood ready to fend them away with oars. With agonizing slowness they drifted between the two islands and out the other side, but still there was no wind, for they were in the lee of the chain of islands beyond.

  “I thought we’d catch enough of a current to carry us through,” said Pender gloomily. The Waif was stationary now, the shrouds sagging from their poles. A tiny current rotated the bow around, then died away.

  “There’s a bit of a breeze over near the cliff,” called Rustible from the mast. “Though it’d be a hell of a pull.”

  A good few hundred spans away the water was feathered with little ripples where the wind was funneled along the cliff line.

  “Quick!” Pender cried. “Get the dinghy over the side, and a stout line onto it. Osseion, into the dinghy. You too, Argis,” he shouted to the meatiest of the sailors.

  In a minute the dinghy was in the water, the two big men at the oars. “Pull for all you’re worth!” Pender roared, “or we’re dead!”

  They pulled, and slowly the cable tightened, spraying water out of the braids. The Waif began to creep toward the rippled sea. And as it did so Poniard appeared at the eastern end of the channel, moving swiftly with the wind.

  “Farsh!” Pender swore, then fell silent. The situation was too dire for cursing.

  29

  * * *

  BRAGGARD’S ROCK

  I don’t suppose you could manage another of your illusions?” Pender said hopefully to Tallia. “Or even better, a breeze?”

  “Weatherworking is one of the most difficult of the Secret Arts,” she replied. “And the least predictable—like the weather itself. I never had any skill at it. But not even Faelamor could hide The Waif on a bright day like today. They can already see us.”

  Poniard was losing speed rapidly in the lee of the islands, though it looked as if she still had enough wind to catch them. And she would do so before the two in the dinghy, now pulling like galley slaves, towed them to that little breezeway over by the cliffs. They watched the enemy’s progress in silence. An hour passed, the slowest that Tallia had ever experienced.

  The pirate craft was now so close that they could see the dark visage of bel Gorst, and hear the roars and jeers of the crew.

  “I can’t bear this,” said Pender, punching his fist against the tiller.

  “Have you any pitch on board?” Tallia asked casually.

  “A barrel or two, unless you threw it over as well, eh?”

  “We didn’t.”

  He stared at her, then suddenly grinned. “Rustible, a barrel of pitch up here, on the double.”

  Shortly Rustible came running up the steps with the barrel on his shoulder, banged it down and expertly knocked the top out.

  “Pitch up a couple of arrows for me, would you,” Tallia said, concentrating with her eyes closed. “And fetch a bucket of coals from the galley.”

  Tallia sat, cross-legged, lost in her mind as she constructed the separate parts of her illusion and fitted them together in her head. No one said anything, though Pender gripped the rail as if trying to mold the brass to the shape of his fingers. The crew stared at the approaching boat. It was very close.

  Suddenly Tallia’s eyes flew open. “The bow!” she snapped. A longbow was put in her hand. She drew the string back once or twice, then nodded. “The arrow!” A pitched arrow was handed to her. She tested its weight and balance, then smeared the pitch down with one finger.

  Springing up, she touched the arrowhead to the fire bucket and drew it out flaming. She stepped to the rail, drew back the bowstring until the flaming head almost touched the wood, and let it fly. It arced high, descended toward the other boat and slammed into the sail just above the boom. A little patch of flame grew there. Tallia threw the bow to Rustible, crying “Shoot again!” then she swayed on her feet, chanting.

  The tiny flame licked at the sail. Another joined it, higher up, from Rustible’s arrow, then with a violent roar flames sprang right to the top of the sail, and leapt to the other sails too. The sailors raced to the sides of the boat. Tallia moved her hands in the air and the flame appeared
to jump to the ropes, the wheel-house, even the planks of the deck. Half the sailors promptly leapt over the side, while the others crowded at the bow. Bel Gorst ran back and forth, screaming at them and heaving buckets of water at the fire.

  Tallia suddenly fell down on the deck and the illusion vanished. One sail was on fire, and its ropes, but that was all. Pender whooped. Everyone stared at the flames. No one moved.

  “Hoy!” boomed Osseion’s deep voice from the dinghy. “What are you doing? Let’s get going!”

  Unnoticed, the rowers had pulled The Waif into the patch of light air. The sails rippled and began to bell out. Before Pender could give an order the sailors were at their posts. Osseion and Argis clambered up the side, as drenched with sweat as if they had fallen in the water. The dinghy was hauled over the side.

  “I’ve never worked so hard in all my life,” Osseion gasped, slurping down a dipper of water.

  On Poniard the fire had been put out. A hole was burned in the mainsail, and the ropes and spars were charred, but the other sheets, though scorched, were intact. Most of the conflagration had been illusion.

  Bel Gorst was working with a cold fury, recovering the sailors who had leapt overboard, whipping them indiscriminately as they began the task of replacing the ropes and sails. But now Poniard was herself becalmed, as tantalizingly close to that cliff-line breeze as The Waif had been before her, and he was forced to watch helplessly as she set her sails and began to drift away and, once out of the wind shadow of the islands, to gather speed and head downwind in the direction of Roros.

  Only then was there time to pick up Tallia, who still lay in a daze, and carry her to a hammock in the shade. They reached Roros not long before dawn, tied up at a wharf, put out guards and slept the day away. That evening they gathered for dinner and a council of war.

  “I’m ruined,” Pender said, looking haggard as death. The euphoria of their escape had worn off long ago. “I invested all my profits in the quicksilver venture; every grint!” Slumping down in his seat, he thrust the plate away, too miserable to eat.