by Adam Golden
Tulio thought he recalled knowing something of ships, of travelling a great deal. He was so jumbled. He was so confused. It didn’t matter. Nor did the knot of armed men who’d formed when their flourish of panicked activity finally slowed enough to notice the strangers in their midst. Tulio knew he should do something, should care more, but he didn’t. He just stood and watched, not even taking in the words that were shouted at him.
The one in the middle, the one doing the yelling, was shaking a knife at him. The monster stood over Nicholas, club in hand. Tulio looked up, attention captured by a clog of gulls wheeling above the ship. The ship raced away from the maddened shambles of Byzantium on choppy seas. A long, slow, sighing breath leaked from between his lips, and Tulio watched the birds.
Storms Swell
“Ship, aft!!” The call from the rigging high above Nicholas’ head pulled his eyes to the man who’d yelled. Clutching a rope that spanned up from the main deck, a member of Dancer’s crew pointed steadily behind them.
“Galley under oars, coming fast!” the lookout called.
“Markings?” a booming sour voice demanded as Dancer’s captain appeared, pushing roughly past Nicholas, all of his attention on his lookout.
“The sails are dark, Captain,” the crewman called down. “Deep green or black. No markings, no railings. They’re rigged for a fight! Wait,” the silence stretched for a long moment, “there’s another, a second ship. Same sail. They’re hauling oars!”
“Rowers to your oars!” Captain Dahshur bellowed.
The deck, already teaming with movement and activity, exploded into a carefully ordered riot as sixty crewmen filed to their benches and made ready to put Dancer’s double banks of oars to the sea.
“What’s happening?” Nicholas asked, putting himself in Dahshur’s path.
The wiry seafarer’s face, always the picture of sullen anger, took on a menacing sneer. “I don’t have time for—” he barked and tried to force his way past.
The Bishop took hold of the smaller man’s bicep in a grip like an iron manacle and forced the injured captain back a step.
Dahshur’s eyes widened in shocked fury.
“Make time,” Nicholas said before the other man could speak. “What’s happening? Who are those ships?”
The rest of the crew might step gingerly around Nicholas, at least with Prancer about, but not Captain Dahshur. The man was surly, unpleasant, and utterly unflappable. Nicholas doubted Akil Dahshur would show anything but his customary dour scowl, even at his own execution, or in an Emperor’s harem for that matter. Certainly, it would take more than the broken leg he’d received from Prancer’s club to give the man even a second’s pause.
The tall, narrow-shouldered Egyptian seemed carved from the same nut-brown wood as his ship. Dahshur and Dancer were two pieces of a whole, as though the ship had birthed the man wholly formed from her decks to command her. They shared the same light slimness, the same aura of speed, grace, and danger. Not to mention that Dahshur had a beak every bit as prominent and blade-sharp as the prow of his vessel.
“They’re raiders, pirates!” the hobbled sailor spat wrenching his arm free. “This close to Cyprus they’re probably Cretan, very fast and very dangerous, now if you—”
“What would pirates want with a ship that escorts grain barges that’s not escorting any grain?” Nicholas asked suspiciously.
The anger in Dahshur’s face never slackened, but there was something else in his eyes. Worry? The leathery little man’s eyes darted away for a moment before he managed to cover. That he knew why those ships were coming was obvious. Equally obvious was that he had no intention of sharing with Nicholas.
“Perhaps you would like to stay here and ask them?” the sinewy Egyptian sneered. “No? Then I suggest you get your . . . people below deck now, and maybe I’ll be able to save all of our lives!”
This time when he pushed past, Nicholas staggered backward, and might have fallen if he hadn’t found Prancer there to steady him.
—
Thirty oars splashed down on either side of Dancer’s hull and, on their very first stroke, the light little ship leapt forward like a sprinter off the starting line. From the start it was obvious that Dancer was an agile ship. Unfortunately, her pursuers seemed, if not her equal, at least well-suited to the task of running her down.
Ignoring the captain’s request that they go below, Nicholas and Prancer joined Tulio at the stern of the ship, and watched as their stalkers gained. Those gains came slowly, but they came nonetheless. The chasers were bigger, heavier ships, equipped with an extra bank of oars on either side, and certainly manned with more crew to pull them. It was plain to see that what the pirates gave up in weight they easily made up for in raw power. Once Dahshur’s oar crews began to tire, the wolves would be at their throats for certain.
Nicholas brushed his tongue with a finger and used what little saliva he found there to sketch a rough glyph on the rail before him. The incantation he muttered under his breath was hardly past his lips before the snap of ropes and whoosh of fabric pulled taut and announced its success.
Dancer sprang forward again as her huge square sail was filled near to bursting with the strong wind Nicholas called. The sorcerer allowed himself a tight smile of satisfaction at the wild whoop of joy from those on deck, even Dahshur’s surly lips weren’t curved quite as far downward as usual. His spell would foul the winds in their wake as readily as it pushed Dancer forward, but with nearly twice as many oars in the water as Dancer had, Nicholas feared the end might be the same. Even spell-wrought breezes would die out eventually.
He could work something on the tides themselves, foul the rowers of the other ships, perhaps snap a few of their oars, but he hesitated. Sea magic was some of the oldest and most powerful he knew, but it was erratic. Even the most gentle touch could become a tempest that would smash their pursuers and themselves into kindling. Storms were easy to call, even without meaning to, and all but impossible to dispel once formed. The wildness, unpredictability of it made sea magic something Nicholas had never seriously pursued. After a moment more of consideration, he dismissed the idea. Better to be overtaken than drowned in some accidental typhoon.
“Dark sail to port!” Half the eyes on deck went to the rigging, where the lookout was pointing urgently, the other half swung to the left and out to the sea.
Strain as he would, Nicholas couldn’t see the latest hound set on their trail, he thought the lookout must have eyes like a hawk. Up near the bow the captain bellowed orders, half of which Nicholas couldn’t hear and none of which he actually understood. Luckily his crew seemed to know what he was about, as several of them set about adjusting ropes and sails to catch the wind differently, while others called instructions down to the rowers. Dancer veered smoothly away from the latest threat without losing any distance on those behind.
—
For more than an hour their pursuers menaced them, gaining ground with every moment, but always lagging a bit behind and then, as suddenly as they’d come, all three ships were simply gone. No trace of them remained on the horizon, no call came from the rigging. The sea was apparently empty, save for Dancer.
Nicholas breathed a sigh of relief, until he realized that everyone around seemed more tense rather than less.
“What is it?” he asked one of Dahshur’s lieutenants when he came to peer out at the sea in their wake.
The officer, a grizzled looking older man who stank of sweat, dirt and stale beer, eyed him up and down, shot a furtive look at Prancer, and spit over the rail before responding.
“Them two behind should have caught up faster, but they kept their distance while tryin’ to look like they weren’t.” The worn looking seaman spat again and scratched at the greasy grey peppered thatch of hair on his head. “Cretans don’t quit so easy, and they don’t run farther than they have to.”
“Then why?” Nicholas started.
“Because we’re being herded.” Nicholas turned at the strong
clipped voice of Akil Dahshur, who had somehow managed to approach unheard despite his handicap.
“Those ships were meant to make us run this way,” the Captain explained. “We’ve been pushed south east for the better part of an hour. The fact that we cannot see the Cretans any longer likely means we’re already inside the trap.”
Dahshur didn’t seem as nervous as some of the others on deck. Nicholas could see several fingering hilts at their belts or casting furtive glances at the horizon. Dahshur seemed not so much tense as taut, a compressed spring awaiting release, a drawn bow ready to fire.
“What will you do?” Nicholas asked.
“We’ll ready to repel raiders,” the Egyptian replied fiercely, “and if we should get an opening we’ll run. What I need to know is when it comes to fighting, can we rely on you and your . . .” the man stumbled for a moment before throwing up his hand in Prancer’s direction, “that?”
“We have no more interest in being taken by pirates than you do,” Nicholas told the captain after a moment’s consideration.
He also had no interest in, or intention of, allowing himself or his people to come to harm to protect whatever it was this man was hiding. If necessary, Nicholas would feed this scowling Egyptian and his crew to these pirates to prevent that, but only if necessary.
“Ships forward, coming fast!”
The captain’s eyes swung up to the rigging and a filthy sounding curse ripped from his lips. “Turn to starboard! Rowers, double time,” Dahshur roared “Archers to stations! Rig for a fight.”
Activity on the already bustling deck seemed to double at each of the reedy captain’s hollered commands. A score of crewmen armed with short recurved bows and each wearing a pair of bristling quivers at their belts lined the port side of the deck, each fingering already nocked arrows. There were nerves there, but Nicholas thought they all looked calm enough, practiced. Every fifth man cradled a small lidded clay pot in his arms which he set on the deck before him with exaggerated care. A pair of others were fussing with something which turned out to be a sort of small catapult which attached to the deck near the rear of the ship, while others took down the railings. The whole crew worked with a calm speedy precision that Nicholas couldn’t help but admire. Clearly this was not the first fight Dancer had seen. He hoped their careful professionalism would be enough.
Nicholas stepped closer to Prancer’s side. “Any who board this ship die.” The revenant grunted a pleased sounding grunt. “Do not damage the ship. Be careful of the crew. Whatever they’re coming for is none of our concern, but this ship cannot be taken.”
“Ships to starboard!” the lookout called. “More coming to port! We’re surrounded!”
More than half a dozen sleek, sharp warships hung with sails striped in blood red and white sped toward Dancer from all sides. They came like a pack of hunting wolves closing on a winded stag. Few were of a size with Dahshur’s spritely little ship, fast, light little galleys, each with no more than sixty oars. Most were larger, honest to goodness warships with a full ninety oars a side.
A call from behind brought Nicholas’ head around. The archers’ strange little pots were unlidded and, one by one, each man set the tip of his arrow inside. When they drew it out the bundle of cloth tied below each arrowhead burst alight.
A loud thud sounded as the arm of Dancer’s little catapult swung forward. Nicholas couldn’t see the projectile, but the fireball which struck the side of the closest ships like magic was all the testament he needed. Another call from the officer with the archers sounded, and twenty flaming missiles streaked into the sky. Most of the arrows landed harmlessly, lost in the sea. A bare few hit their intended target, striking the coming ship’s wide sails. The archers gave a delighted cry as the fire spread remarkably quickly, as though the tough sailcloth were made of old parchment.
Nicholas allowed himself another small pleased smile. He wouldn’t be able to do much overtly, but a few covert efforts to enhance the crew’s efforts here and there wouldn’t be that great a risk.
—
“Push, damn your hides, push!” Dahshur roared.
His voice somehow split the bedlam and managed to ring above the clash of swords on shields and above the screaming as men fell around him. The Captain stood in the midst of a knot of his crewmen working sword and shield methodically, desperately trying to fight their way to the heavy cables that held Dancer fast against the side of her much larger captor. Here and there one of the crew slid on decking slick with blood or tripped over the writhing form of one of the dozens of wounded that littered the ship.
The pirate fleet were burning, or most of it was. Smoke poured into the sky and made Nicholas’ eyes burn and water. He couldn’t see more than ten feet in front of him and nearly had his head caved in a half-dozen times as a result.
Four of the smaller galleys around Dancer stood impotent, their crews out of the fight as they scrambled to contain blazes on their decks or cut loose flaming sails.
Dahshur’s archers and artillery men knew their work and for a time, with Nicholas’ aid, it seemed they might have turned the tide. Until the pirate’s lead vessel caught them up.
The vessel leading the attack was a quinquereme. The infamous workhorse of the Imperial navy, a “five” as they were known, was a warship without equal. Dancer was as outclassed as a child with a stick facing an armored legionnaire. The massive ship was half again as long as her victim with five banks of oars at a side and, most damningly, a seemingly endless supply of men to pour down onto their much smaller prey. The big five’s bronze beak snapped oars like a scythe shearing wheat as it slid alongside, and three different ballistae fired as one.
Nicholas heard the anguished groans from the crew as the ballista’s projectiles slammed through Dancer’s hull. They knew what it was even before the crews aboard the big five began turning their ratcheting cranks, pulling the quick little galley toward certain doom. The harpax—half harpoon, half grappling hook—couldn’t be dislodged once it penetrated the hull. The ingenious device had been in service for centuries and rarely ever failed. Dahshur had to know it was hopeless, but the leathery man fought on without pause, whipping his men into furor again and again, despite the obvious. If the grapples couldn’t be dislodged he’d fight his way to the ballistae themselves and cut the cables free.
Nicholas left the captain to his madness. It was hopeless and he knew it. For himself, he was simply trying not to have his head opened up by battle-maddened pirates or frenzied members of Dahshur’s crew. He’d lost track of Prancer in the smoke and chaos, though now and again he heard a guttural, strangled kind of roar, usually followed by a chorus of screams from several throats. Tulio he hadn’t seen since before they’d repelled the first wave of smaller ships. He fought alone, with his back pressed against Dancer’s central mast. His heavy black dagger in one hand and a hook bladed bronze short sword he’d scooped from the deck in the other, he slashed and hacked at anything that came his way with malice in their eyes.
“God damn them both!” Nicholas spat. He was no warrior. Tulio had always been the steel against steel kind. That thought came as he slapped aside a wild javelin thrust with his scythe-like bronzed blade and drove his dagger into the throat of the wild-eyed pirate before him. Despite his thoughts, there was a neat pile of fallen enemies gathered around Nicholas, but he was also bleeding from a score of shallow cuts and near misses, and the enemies were still coming.
Perhaps the time for circumspection has passed, he thought with a giddy, exhausted laugh.
His weapons worked automatically. His bronze hook sword turned aside thrusts and slashes, while the midnight black dagger flicked out like the tongue of a viper, opening throats and slashing bellies. Nicholas paid none of it any mind, his reflexes and training did their work, as he turned his concentration inward, gathering his power, calling to the secret core of his being. Those on the five would be too busy fighting to see, and those aboard Dancer . . . well, they would hardly be a problem.
“Where are you?” he demanded.
In answer to his call, Prancer’s roaring, choked bellow sounded out and one of the thick cables that bound Dancer to the five’s side went slack. Of course, he’d instructed the monster not to let the ship be taken. Once the harpaxes had taken hold, the only way to keep that command was to board the enemy vessel.
Nicholas pushed off from the mast and waded into the smoky haze toward where the captain and his crew struggled to get to the ballistae. He had to get whatever crew was left to their oars.
He still clutched sword and dagger in his hands, but wherever he was met with resistance his power swatted it aside like a boulder crushing an insect. Men were hurled into the air or crushed under foot by the bushel. One nearly put his short sword through Nicholas’ ribs, but both sword and man exploded into a bloody mist as the blade’s tip touched his tunic.
“Free the ship!” Nicholas roared.
Some of Dancer’s crew cheered around him, but the smothered roar from Prancer was the only acknowledgment Nicholas heard. Then a second thick cable went slack as the heavy ballista that anchored it in place launched from the deck of the five as though it had wings.
Nicholas gathered his power around him and leapt, easily propelling himself well over the heads of the knot of crewman still trying to butcher their way onto the attacking vessel. A sweep of his arm and a few muttered words brought a gale that staggered the first line of defending pirates, and Nicholas landed among them with the force of a catapulted stone. His two blades worked furiously, cutting a wedge into the pirates as a bubble of his power kept blade and bludgeon from him. The pirates could do nothing and broke almost instantly. Dancer’s crew, too stunned and terrified by the display to push forward, actually stumbled back when he turned to face them.
