by Giles Carwyn
He ducked around the corner of the cabin and backed up a set of stairs leading to the second deck. She tried to follow, but he was using the height and constriction of the stairs to his advantage.
Smiling, she said:
“I expected a better show from you
Surely you know a rhyme or two
I heard you were once quite clever
When Leftblade’s right you did sever.”
She launched a flurry of blows, driving him backward up the steps. With a sudden twist, he tossed his sword from right to left and slipped out of her reach, racing into open space again.
Natshea followed slowly, drinking in her pain, feeling stronger and stronger with every step. The voices sang to her like a crowd chanting her name.
Mikal gathered himself, his sword held back in a defensive position. She stopped just in front of him, lowered her guard, and shrugged. “What?” she asked.
He didn’t reply, and she continued:
“From this day forth all talk shall cease
From this day forth your tongue will know peace
Then your golden reputation is mine to seize
With your last drop of silence spilled on the Summer Seas”
Despite himself, Heidvell smiled and gave a little snort. He rose to his full height, and he finally spoke.
“I cannot imagine where you lost your mind
Or what by this duel you hope to find
If you persist, it is to your shame
But since you insist, I’ll give you game.
I fear that steel is on your side
But the truth does not with you reside
And we all know the inevitable fate
That waits for hearts soaked in hate.”
Her anger flared, and she attacked again. He met her blade with cowardly blocks, constantly backing up. If the bastard would face me like a real duelist, try a cut, a riposte, leave himself open just once, I could end this farce!
She pressed her advantage, breathing harder than she ever had in a duel. They traded blows through the swirling smoke, and he finally tried an attack. She stepped forward at the last second, blocking his blade with her left forearm. His sword cut deep into her arm, glancing off the bone, and she drove her knee toward his crotch.
He barely spun out of the way, and she caught him hard on the inner thigh, throwing him off-balance. He stumbled to his knees, barely hanging on to his sword.
Natshea held back, waiting for him to recover. She shuddered with the delicious pain in her arm. A flap of skin dangled just above her wrist, and a steady stream of blood poured off her elbow. She hissed and drew the power into herself. Her entire body felt like it was growing larger, faster, more powerful. A few more wounds, and she would be invincible.
She was going to enjoy Heidvell’s death, enjoy it immensely.
Vinghelt shrieked and rushed into the hall, with Jesheks right behind him.
Shara leapt from the bed, following. Turning the corner, she saw Jesheks grab Vinghelt and throw him bodily against the burning ladder. The wood snapped, and Vinghelt tumbled behind it to the far side.
“How dare you disturb me!” Jesheks shouted.
“Has everyone gone mad!?” Vinghelt shrieked. “We’re trapped!”
Jesheks stopped and, for the first time, seemed to realize that they were in the middle of an inferno. He stared at the broken ladder. A steady stream of burning oil poured through the opening from the deck above them. The flames above were blistering—there was no way they could go up that way.
Shara rushed to Jesheks’s side, trying to send her magic to him, trying to calm him.
He spun around, clubbed her with his fat arm. “Stay away from me!”
She stumbled back, reeling. His red eyes were feral, and he jerked his head around, looking for a way out. The man she had touched in the bed just a few moments before was utterly gone. He didn’t even look like himself anymore. She had lost him and would never get him back.
Vinghelt stammered, shying away from the flames still pouring through the hatch. “I’ve got an axe!” He cringed against the wall, as far away from Jesheks as he could get. “We could chop out through the hull.”
“The hull’s a foot thick, you idiot!” Jesheks snarled, snatching the axe out of his hand. “You’ve killed us! We’re all going to die in here! Burned alive!”
Lawdon raced into the rigging, avoiding the flames as best she could. Fire bells were ringing all around her. The Floating Palace had been alerted, but there were fires everywhere. The nearby Waveborn had begun a small bucket brigade, but it was like spitting on a bonfire. Too little, too late, and that blaze was spreading with a mind of its own.
“Listen! We need this ship cut free!” Lawdon shouted down to the crowd below. “Cut her free. Cut every last line. Now!”
Pulling the loop of rope from her shoulder, she wrapped it around the mainmast and cinched it tight with a reef knot. When it was set, she looked down.
“Get everyone to the starboard side! Get onto the next ship over!” she yelled, throwing the line to the deck below. The crowd milled hesitantly. “Do it!” she screamed. “There are people in there. We need to get them out!”
They moved to the starboard side, many leaping the gap to Dancing Dolphin.
“You there!” She pointed. “Run the line to the windlass on that ship. You with the axe, cut the shrouds.” The man with the axe in his hands hesitated.
“Now, sailor!” she shouted. He jumped to work, chopping through the lines that steadied the mast on the starboard side.
“Tie it to another line. Tie it tight. The strongest knot you can make,” she shouted. “And then run it to the windlass over there.” She pointed to the other windlass to Dolphin’s aft.
“We’re going to tip it! Swamp it!” she shouted at the gawking sheep. “Everyone grab a line and pull to starboard. We’ll dip the lower deck underwater and flood the ship.” Finally comprehending her plan, one of them jumped to grab a line and started pulling.
“Everyone!” she shouted. “Quickly! Let’s go! Let’s go! There are people dying in there!” The rest grabbed ahold of whatever lines they could and heaved together. The ship creaked.
With renewed urgency, Lawdon spun around and slid down a rope, thumping onto the deck. She sprinted to the rail and leapt to the adjacent ship, where everyone was heaving on the lines. Grabbing hold of the nearest line, she added her strength.
With each pull, the men at the windlass took up the slack and tightened it. The rope held, and they pulled again.
Natshea laughed, pointing her sword at Mikal. He scrambled to his feet and ran from her. She nearly caught him, but he bolted up another flight of steps from the forecastle to the observation deck. She shouted after him:
“Turn ‘round and fight, you feckless cur
I’ve seen your love and who’s fucking her
I heard that vile eunuch make her grunt
With his pasty fingers jammed in her cunt.”
Heidvell slowed and turned around. She devoured the anguish written across his face. For a moment she thought he would launch himself down the stairs at her, but he held himself back. Smiling, she said:
“She left you for a bloated thing,
What lovely image that does bring?
Her precious thighs did unlock
For a lying bastard with no cock.”
She sauntered up the stairs toward him, stumbling slightly as the deck moved under her. Mikal took a deep breath, and the cocksure grin returned to his lips:
“A woman’s charms are hers to share
With whom she chooses, foul or fair
But I’m guessing that she pricked your ire
Enough to make you light this fire.”
Natshea sneered and rushed him again. The deck continued tilting, growing steeper and steeper under their feet. People were shouting below, but Natshea didn’t take her eyes off Heidvell’s blade. She compensated for the tilting deck and continued forward, driving him toward
the rail at the stern of the ship.
“Why yes I lit this lovely blaze
To trap them in their lovers’ haze
I think their lust will surely sour
When they wake in a burning bower.”
She slashed at him, repeatedly working his off-sword side, taking advantage of the awkward footing. Each time, he barely got his block up and retreated another step. A few more feet, and he would have nowhere left to go. She saw the sweat on his brow as he strove to keep himself alive, but somehow the bastard was smiling.
“Could it be that ghostly man
Holds your heart in his fat hand?
With a cruel thrust, you’ve been shoved
From the albino’s nest, alone, unloved.”
With a roar, she charged forward, but she kept bumping into the rail. She couldn’t stand up straight. Heidvell fell back, barely parrying her blows. He shifted his stance, putting one foot on the deck, one on the rail and crab walking backward.
“You’re just a lonely, crippled thing
With a bitter sword and broken wing
If this sad, ugly tale is true
Then, poor child, I pity you.”
“Pity! Pity!” she screamed. “I’ll flay you open! I’ll peel your flesh away and make you love it. Make you love me.”
Natshea could barely breathe. Her heart beat out of control, and shooting pains lanced down her left arm. She fell to the right, leaning on the rail. The world was falling, shifting under her feet. And there was pity in his eyes! Pity!
Her heart limped in her chest, not beating the way it should. Her left arm hung limp at her side.
The night began to grow blacker, she could barely stand, barely see.
“I’m so sorry,” Mikal said. “So, so, sorry about what they’ve done to you.”
She screamed and rushed him, swinging her sword high overhead.
With blurring quickness, he shifted to the side. Her blade sank into the railing, a hairbreadth from his flesh. He slammed both fists into her hand, throwing his full weight into the blow. The blade sprang from her grip, and she stumbled backward. Her sword clattered through the railing, falling out of sight. Mikal’s sword flashed up, the tip tucked under her chin.
“That’s it,” he said. “It’s over. There’s been enough blood spilled tonight.”
Natshea laughed, did the fool actually think he was being noble? She grabbed his weapon with her bare hands.
“It’s not over, I’m not done with you yet.” She yanked on the blade, but he danced back, wrenching the steel from her grip. Screaming at the pain, she leapt on top of him, bloody hands closing around his throat. Mikal rolled backward, snapping his knee up and lifting her off the ground. He planted a boot firmly on her belly and launched her over his head. She clung to his neck as she fell, but the railing struck her in the left thigh, and she spun around, losing her grip.
She tumbled through the air, blinded by the smoke, and screamed just as she struck the water.
“All together!” Lawdon shouted. “Heave! Heave!”
The two ships creaked as if they were being torn apart. The windlass crew took up the slack, then everyone else heaved again. The ships creaked louder, protesting. The lines quivered, and Lawdon prayed they wouldn’t snap. They were not made for so much strain.
“Again!” she called, and everyone pulled. Vinghelt’s ship leaned a little more. “Again!”
The windlass crew turned the spool, locked it in place.
“How close are we?” Lawdon shouted. Three kids stood at the rail, staring down at the gap between the ships. “One more foot!” one of them shouted.
“One last big pull!” Lawdon shouted again. She looked down the line of panting, sweating Waveborn. “One more. On my mark. Ready! Set! Heave!” The ships groaned, the Waveborn grunted, and the ship dipped the farthest yet.
“They’re in!” the boy yelled. “They’re in!”
“Hold!” Lawdon shouted. “Hold!” Her feet slipped on the deck, and she clenched her teeth. Mikal startled her by coming up behind her, grabbing the line, and helping steady it.
She turned, flooded with relief. “What happened to Natshea?”
“Poor girl’s too enamored of the sight of blood. Especially her own, as it turns out.” He closed his eyes, shook his head. “There was nothing I could do.”
“Sounds like a story,” she said. “Tell me, if we live through this.”
He gave a quick nod.
Planting her boots, she held firm to the quivering line. Mikal grimaced and strained beside her, his knuckles white.
“She’s flooding!” the boy yelled just as a plume of steam rose from the crack between the ships. The kids squealed and scampered away from the edge. The straining lines from the mainmast stopped vibrating, then went slack as Vinghelt’s ship began to sink.
“What’s happening? What’s happening?” Vinghelt shouted, as the ship tilted. The whites showed around his eyes, and his fingers scrabbled down the wall as he slid backward. The fire roared above them, flaming oil dripping into the hallway.
Shara ducked low on the tilting floor, looking for sweeter air. The blaze was almost upon them.
Jesheks attacked the wall with Vinghelt’s axe. His ani blazed around him, keeping him alive with little air.
Her heart twisted as she looked at the roaring inferno above her. She started to gather her power, preparing the Floani form, hoping her new Necani abilities would carry her through the flames. She didn’t want to die like this so far from home, so far from Brophy.
The ship lurched and tilted farther.
“What’s happening?” Vinghelt babbled.
We’re about to be burned alive, she thought. That’s what’s happening.
A hissing sound rose beyond the snapping and crackling of the fire. Shara stopped, suddenly realizing what was happening.
“Someone’s thinking up there,” she said. “They’re swamping the boat.”
“What!” Vinghelt shrieked.
Jesheks stopped swinging the axe and turned around.
“They’re swamping the boat! They’re putting out the fire!” She shouted, moving forward, “Quick, take hold of—”
A gush of water blasted through the hole in the ceiling, extinguishing the flames, plunging them into darkness.
The water rushed into the narrow hallway, flooding the trough where the wall met the floor. Shara rose to her feet, fighting the torrent.
“Jesheks!” she shouted, lunging forward, but the wall of water surged between them. She couldn’t keep her footing on the slick wood. She fell, and the water swept her back, smashing her against the end of the corridor. She was tossed in the darkness, spun around as the deluge tried to drown her.
Gulping a deep breath, she fought the surge, but it crushed her against the bulkhead for an interminable minute.
Slowly, the weight decreased, then disappeared. She floated underwater, but she couldn’t see anything in the darkness. She swam forward, brushing the wall with one hand to remind her where she was.
Her lungs burned, throwing her into memories of the Wet Cells. She swam down the hallway, feeling for the exit. Her fingers closed over the edges of the hatch where the fire had been. The burned wood was still hot, even underwater. She pulled herself through and continued on, feeling her way through the labyrinth of a ship she barely knew.
She took as much time as she dared, willing herself to keep her wits about her. Go slow, she told herself, half-crawling, half-swimming up the stairway until she saw a flickering red light ahead.
She kicked upward, abandoning caution as she saw fire dancing in the water above. Where there was fire, there was air.
The walls of the ship passed beyond her, and she was suddenly in the open water. She wanted to check behind her, wanted to save Jesheks at least, but she had no air left. Kicking for the surface, she broke the waterline and gasped the hot, smoky air.
Flames roared all around. The upended stern of Vinghelt’s sinking ship was still visible
in the midst of the other burning boats. The Floating Palace was afire all around her.
With a cry, Shara peered desperately through the haze and flame, looking for Jesheks. She called for him, but if he was there, he did not answer. She reached out with her magic and was instantly overwhelmed by the cacophony of desperate emotions. She would never find him amid all that rage and fear.
Slapping the water, Shara screamed frustration. She’d lost him. He’d been so close, and she’d lost him forever.
CHAPTER 37
Astor sobbed in Brophy’s arms. The boy shook, and Brophy bowed his head. The muscles in his arms were tense, stiff in their embrace. The black emmeria still thrashed inside him, feeding on Astor’s rage, the pain on his face. He ached to crush the boy crying in his arms, and Brophy hated himself for it.
But he locked that feeling away. He was tired of running. Tired of fleeing from what he’d done and who he might become. If he could not escape this battle, then so be it. He would see it to the end.
Footsteps thumped in the distance, heavy boots slapping on stone. Brophy raised his head. The crowd of Ohohhim parted and three Carriers of the Opal Fire burst through the mists. Their swords were naked in the moonlight, one of them covered with blood. They fanned out in an attack formation.
“No!” Brophy said, wiping a hand across his mangled face. It came away bloody. “Stay back. I’m all right.”
Astor brought his head up. His red-rimmed eyes flicked from one Carrier to the other. He reached to his belt for the Sword of Autumn, but it was long gone.
“No, it’s okay,” Brophy assured him. He let go of the boy, stood up, and put his hands out in a pacifying gesture.
“Are you injured, Warden?” a Carrier asked. “Do you require aid?”
Brophy shook his head. “I’m all right,” he said, then murmured in a lower voice, “I’m better than I have been in a long time.”
