The Wavecutter turned in its course and the sail was furled half way so they approached more slowly.
Soon they could see the squat, wooden tower that rose on its rocky island, a kli or more out from the harbour itself. No flame burned atop that welcoming pillar, and Raven could see the shapes of men, sprawled on the black rock island itself. Whoever had invaded Vol had made sure no message would be sent across the great distances between coastal and inland towns.
The blockading fleet seemed drawn from many countries. It seemed that no ship was alike; no identifying pennant fluttered from any mast. One- and three-masters there were, and wolf ships, and the wide-hulled square-prowed river ships of the Conil Nachta. Of these latter there were more than a few. Spellbinder spotted it first, and then it was obvious. For every battered but seaworthy vessel of the west or south, there was a trim and well-manned ship of the League of the Conil Nachta, a tribal kingdom that inhabited the lands north of the Stream of Steel. Two-masted, with two wide, triangular sails apiece, the green cloth billowed in the wind to display the different tribal emblems—two-faced skulls, circlets of bone, crossed swords above a horned helmet.
“The Viikrach, the Dowfraich and the Wiafrach,” said Spellbinder as the sails were fully unfurled and the ships turned to face them. “They are powerful tribes, and these other vessels have been won in battle over the generations. But they are at peace with the Altante. They war with none but themselves, and with the Lorn raiders that cross the Nachta river. What are they doing here?”
One of the ships weaved toward them. Jirrem cried warning as he spotted the great onager being wheeled to the prow. The ships contained runways and ramps suitable for carrying men and launching ship to ship attacks, but rarely in this time did the tribal League use its latent sea-faring power; there had been an age, scant years past, when they fought bitter sea battles on the Lake of the Dead, with the tribes that lived to the east of them. But the warring instinct was quiet for a while. Had Belthis, then, awakened their fighting spirit?
A great stone whistled towards the, crashed into the sea too close for comfort; cold spray drifted across them and Spellbinder called to Karmana, now at the rudder, to turn Wavecutter south again. The Viikrach ship pursued for a while, but they soon lost it.
“See how few ships were blockading the harbour?” said Spellbinder, as distance blurred Vol. “No more than fifteen, and as effective a blockade as I’ve seen.”
“It it’s the Conil Nachta behind this,” said Raven, “will they have enough vessels to blockade all the Altan’s harbours?”
“More than enough,” said Jirrem. “It is said that the eastern tribes of the League are refugees from a great sea-faring nation that once hugged all the coast that guards the great Waste of Nachta. Their skills have never been lost, and it has always been known that they have built ships on the Lake of the Dead, and in the still waters along the branches of the Nachta river. I have seen it myself. Whole communities live upon vessels such as those that now stand off from Vol; foliage disguises them, and natural curves in the river conceal them. There are many hundreds of them, and all seaworthy. They keep them so because their legends tell of a War Queen, called Irika, who was lost in a great sea battle, a thousand years ago, but who still sails the mists of Worldheart, waiting to return and lead her people, the combined tribes, to a triumphant victory over the equally legendary Tribes of Dunaag.”
“Fascinating,” said Raven, “but I do not think that day is yet come. This is no acting out of legend, but serious war.”
Arreena came down from the deck, weary from her stint at the mast head. “Each small haven on the coast is guarded from sea and cliff,” she said. “Whoever has invaded the Altanate has made sure none shall enter it, by any route.”
“A fine conquest, if conquest it is,” said Spellbinder. Raven noticed that his face was again as pale as death.
Time passed. The ship sailed fast towards the sound and east, and came at length to the approach waters of Salit, the biggest of the ports, with harbours and waterways that cut deep into the land to compensate for the lack of a substantial natural river system. As the land, and the tall brickwork of the city, came over the horizon, so too did a panorama of sail. From the harbour in the east, stretching across their vision as they watched from the prow of the wolf boat, right away to the west, were ships: white and green, and red and white of sail, some dark and squat of hull, others lean and sleek, yellow-trimmed and daubed with faces and features that made them seem as a flock of some grinning bird, resting on the glassy waters.
As they came closer, and again set-to so they might observe, they distinguished the two fleets.
M’rystal had sailed here from Kragg, intending to save the time it would take passing up the river Lym by riding inland with a small troop of men to his palace at Kahrsaam. He had recently received a rude shock.
Salit, like Vol, like every small harbour between the two sea-cities, and no double like Lym itself, was blockaded. Fifty ships at least, each placed strategically to give it the weight and worth of ten. Raven recognised the ships of the Conil Nachta, and the same clusters of foreign vessels. She recognised another worthy-looking vessel type, tall of hull, high-prowed and with all the requisites of horse transportation. One of these ships, from its single mast above the furled yellow sail, was flying a pennant that Raven did not recognise. It was a flag, long and thin, and divided at its end so that it flickered like a darting tongue of a desert snake. Two narrow eyes were the emblem, the twin orbs divided by a great curved sabre.
“By the All Mother,” whispered Jirrem, “that is the pennant of the Sons of Lorn, the nomads from the desert beyond the Lym river.”
“Nomads with ships?” said Moonshadow, shaking his head. “In truth, some of the lands here defy understanding.”
Jirrem said, “No simple nomads, these; along the coast they have great cities, many hidden from the sea by high cliffs. There are many chieftains, but one war-lord above all has power in Lorn: Cru’arthaa Jade Eyes. They have few ships, and use them mostly to take an occasional merchantman sailing in their waters. They guard their land most jealously and fight among each other continually. Most of all they war with the tribal League of the Conil Nachta. A river battle is magnificent to behold. I have fought for the Dowfraich as a mercenary. They fight only in the water and all who die are allowed unhindered passage out to sea. For months after a great slaughter the estuary of the Nachta is think with corpses, and the air his heavy with their stench.”
“Then Lorn and Nachta are allied, opposed to the Altan and in possession of his kingdom.” Spellbinder prodded the map as he spoke. “Few men there are who could have effected such an alliance.”
“How many are there could break it?” asked Raven, and when Spellbinder looked at her she smiled. “Alliances hard formed are easily undone. All that holds Lorn and Nachta together is the promise of spoils shared; greed is no basis for an alliance.”
“We don’t know that for a fact,” said Silver. “Though speaking personally, greed seems an excellent reason. ’Tis greed that would make me ally with you, Raven. In fact I would lie with you for nothing, and would be happy to be swiftly undone.”
Raven sniffed loudly. She ignored Silver, but not unkindly. “What puzzles me,” she said pointing to M’rystal’s fleet, “is why he has not attacked. The blockade would hold them hard for hours, but M’rystal has the upper hand, surely.”
“Aye,” said Spellbinder, furling the map he held. He glanced up into the skies. “Night lies but an hour away. I doubt that the Altan will do much until daybreak, now.”
Moonshadow said, softly, “Your M’rystal seems a man plagued by indecisive action. If he has done nothing by now he will have done nothing effective by this time tomorrow.”
Raven nodded soberly. “You speak no more than what I have been thinking. But M’rystal has led his country in war before now, and there is no reason why he should not do so again. I think, in his favour, that there is an element here we do
not understand.”
Under cover of night the wolf ship slipped back to the north, a few kli along the coast to where the short, if unsuitable for disembarking even a few men of war, was nevertheless amenable to a good swimmer. Raven, Karmana and Moonshadow slipped over the side of the vessel and struck through the cold water until they felt the rock beneath their feet.
Shivering they watched Spellbinder waving to them as the wolf ship slipped away into the night, taking the Sorcerer to M’rystal and a second confrontation.
Saturated and frozen, Raven led the way up the steep short until they reached the more substantial ground of the upper grass bank. Here, sprawled on their stomachs, they stared across the dark land beyond, seeking among the scattered lights for a sing of enemy movement.
“There seems to be a dwelling of some sort ahead of us, but no town.”
Moonshadow had half risen to get a better view. Raven tugged him down again. “A town lies just two kli inland from here. We shall get what information we require in one of the taverns there.”
“I see no sign of the Conil Nachta,” murmured Karmana, “but then I would not expect to.”
“And yet,” said Moonshadow, almost too quietly to be heard, “I sense movement about us.”
Raven had noticed the crude watchtowers on both sides of them, some half a kli away to the north and more to the south. Now she too felt the uncomfortable sensation of men crawling towards them.
“Run,” she whispered, and in the instant of her command was up and racing across the turf, away from the sea. She heard Moonshadow thudding behind her, and Karmana, fleet-footed and silent, darting into the darkness to her right. A moment later a torch was struck from flint and flared brilliantly before them.
All stopped. Other torches sprang to life, and Karmana backed away from them, coming close to Raven. All three drew their swords and held them out, coming together in a tight group with Moonshadow turned back to face the sea.
“No more than tne,” he whispered.
“Aye,” said Raven. “But what a ten!”
In the brightness of the torches she saw the warriors of Lorn for the first time ever. Her skin chilled.
Tall men, they were, and broad and strong of shoulder. Their faces lay hidden beneath gleaming metal masks, and helmets that were thin strips of steel enclosing their heads like cages; just their eyes were exposed: dark eyes, that watched narrowly from the enigmatic silence of their features.
They wore loose, flowing robes of some highly reflective material that was tucked into their leather boots just below the knee. Their shirts were opened to the waist and Raven saw how deep and thickly-haired were their chests, the tangled fur darker even than the dark skin of their bodies. Each carried a wide-bladed sabre in one hand and a thin, evil-looking two-pronged dirk in the other.
Raven hesitated just long enough for her mind to encompass the full extent of the danger, then her hand moved as a blur, to her belt and away again: there was a sound like a scythe moving through the air, and a second later one of the warriors of Lorn screamed and toppled backwards, a throwing star deeply embedded in his forehead.
The others rammed their torches into the ground and moved in; as a wind blowing hard and keen through the night blades swept towards heads and met the hard, razor steel of the mercenaries.
Raven knew little save that she seemed to strike a man with every blow she dealt. Perhaps the Sons of Lorn were more used to desert fighting, but they seemed ill at east by night and on hard, rocky ground. Raven’s blade found flesh time and time again, and though she used all her stars she found time even to reach to those she had killed and pluck the deadly weapons from their cooling flesh.
When she sensed that he skirmish was won, and saw, as she fought, that both Karmana and Moonshadow were comfortably beating back their own opposition, Raven struck hard at the sabre wielded by the last of her foe and reduced him to weaponless surrender. He dropped his knife, but remained stiffly upright, staring at the woman.
Raven grinned. She held her sword hard against the man’s heaving chest, and picked up a torch from where it burned in the ground. Holding the flame towards him she told him to remove his mask and helmet.
“I listen to no woman,” he said bitterly. Karmana laughed as she walked up behind Raven.
“He will listen to us,” she said, and ripped the man’s mask away. Dark hair tumbled about his shoulders and his full, moist lips parted in anger, exposing filed white teeth. His eyes burned with fury as he looked between the two of them.
Moonshadow finished with his own part of the fight, but stayed where he was, crouched on his haunches, watching the dark land and the starlit skies with that same impenetrable expression that he had worn when first Raven had known him.
Raven spoke to the Lorn Warrior, “Tell us for whom you fight, and with whom you are allied. Quickly, if you value your life.”
The warrior spit into Raven’s face. The saliva trickled down her cheek and she passed the torch to Karmana so she might wipe the offending fluid from her skin.
“I ask you again,” she said quietly, letting the point of her blade prick blood from the man’s breast. “For whom do you fight?”
“I do not acknowledge defeat by a woman,” said the warrior stiffly.
“But you are defeated,” said Raven. “And if you want to live, you had better do as I say.”
“I would prefer to die than acknowledge defeat by a bitch among curs.”
Raven felt no anger, no surge of resentment. She knew little of the Sons of Lorn, but was quite ready to accept that they held women in little regard. It was not unknown among the hundreds of tribes around Worldheart for this situation to have arisen, and nor indeed the reverse, where men were chattels to women. Raven, as a warrior, was sexless, counting only upon her skill and speed to win the day. That she was a woman in body seemed less important than that she was as skillful a swordsman as most warriors the world could bring forth.
She said, “Superior swordskill has defeated you, as it defeated your friends. You all made the mistake of believing you had won before you started, simply because your arrogant pride would not allow you to contemplate the idea of defeat at the hands of women. It is your loss, our gain. If all your countrymen are as short sighted as this, then the wall will soon be won.”
The faintest flicker of concern passed across the warrior’s face. Raven seized upon it, finding her patience growing thin. “Yes, my friend, a war. Your alliance will soon be broken. Answer my questions and you will live to fight that war, to defend the alliance, this I promise you.”
But again the warrior stiffened. “I listen not to the sour voice of a woman.”
Raven, irked beyond control, said, “Then listen to a woman’s steel!” And with one swift and savage motion she cut his throat.
Twelve
“Nothing is what it seems. Carried by the tide, in darkness and in stillness, a man is unaware of motion.”
The Books of Kharwhan
They were exhausted by the time they came to the outskirts of the small town that Raven had seen on the map aboard the Wavecutter. They came out of the dark and the cold and the town welcomed with its warmth and promise of food, fire and a soft bed for a few hours.
Without cloaks to conceal them, and their nature, they crept warily among the crowded buildings, hugging the low, hanging eaves and low-arched alleyways that divided each main dwelling place. The roadway was wet, some rain or dewfall earlier in the evening, perhaps, and the rough stone glistened with the thinly dispersed light from a few windows.
If Raven found the place appealing, Moonshadow did not. “Never have a I seen a more desperate place,” he complained. “It wouldn’t welcome a dog.”
“Appearances are deceptive,” murmured Raven. She led the way to an inn, recognisable by its creaking sign outside, and opened the heavy, wooden door to the interior.
Light flooded out, the light of several lanterns swinging from the rafters inside. A blast of warm air, carrying the sweet
smell of meat, caused nostrils to flare and mouths to water. The low murmur of contented voices was a far more pleasing sound than the wailing of wind across the scrubby desert to the west.
A man, seated at a rough table inside the house, looked up in surprise, then smiled delightedly. “Travelers!” he cried. “Come in! Welcome!”
* * *
Raven picked meat from her teeth and smacked her lips appreciatively; all the time she watched Moonshadow as the strange warrior picked critically at the bowl of fatty meat and semi-raw vegetables before him. Karmana had long since finished two portions of the stew and was leaning back on the wooden chair, eyes half closed, hands resting on her belly, contented.
Moonshadow finally pushed the plate away from him, and shook his head. Raven laughed. Both then watched in amazement as Karmana, after a silent and brief debate with her better conscience, leaned forward and scooped the grease-laden food from the plate, swallowing it with relish. “There’s nothing quite like fat to get the taste buds going,” she commented with a glistening grin. Moonshadow went paler than usual.
Then Raven called to their host, Orlak, a wretched but contented man of middle years, unshaven and unkempt, but happy about the state of affairs. He wiped his hands and came over to sit with them, pouring some sour version of ale into pewter mugs for each of them. Raven asked about the events of the past few weeks.
“What is there to tell? By some ruse M’rystal was enticed, with his fleet and army, out of the land. Lifebane of Kragg was probably paid a country’s ransom for his act, but he shall live to regret it.” Raven said nothing, seeing little point in starting an irrelevant argument. “He had no sooner passed beyond the horizon…well, a few days after, perhaps…when a million warriors stormed across the Lym, and up the coastal waters. Hardly a drop of blood was spilled. They occupied undefended land.”
“It is true, then, that Nachta and Lorn are allied?”
A Time of Ghosts Page 16
