‘Lots of ’em. Hundreds.’
Hundreds? Pazel looked at the ship’s defenders, strung out along the rail. Where was his own sword? No time for it: he found a cutlass in a tangle of rigging, the hilt still smeared with the blood of the man who’d dropped it. Then he pushed his way to the rail.
The sea was full of dlomu, swimming as only dlomu could. The fastest were already close to the Chathrand’s pitching hull. The Death’s Head, barely a mile off, was firing its regular guns, firing with a will. But something strange was happening: all the shots were falling hopelessly short. And some of the Chathrand’s defenders were putting down their pikes, and casting about the deck for other tools.
‘What’s going on?’ he shouted.
A face glanced up at him: Mandric. ‘Don’t ye blary see, they-’
BOOM.
A great fireball rose from Macadra’s ship. ‘Oh hang me from Heaven’s Tree!’ snarled Mandric, as they dropped below the rail. The fireball screamed, then detonated — twenty yards from the Chathrand. The flame licked her hull, but there was nothing left in easy reach to burn.
Except the dlomu in the water.
Pazel looked at Mandric and the others near him: they were holding ropes and life preservers. The dlomu were deserting Macadra’s ship.
They stood up. The sea looked empty. Then a black leg surfaced. Then a body without a head.
‘That hag,’ said Mandric. ‘She don’t want to sink us and lose the prize, but she’s fine with killin’ her own. She just slaughtered a third of her mucking crew.’
Beside the Turach, Bolutu’s eyes were bright. ‘They almost made it. We could have pulled them aboard.’ He looked at Pazel in sudden wonder. ‘There was a selk among them.’
‘A selk?’ said Pazel. ‘A selk aboard the Death’s Head?’
Cries from the opposite rail. Confusion, then wild urgency, pointing fingers, laughs. The dlomu were surfacing on the far side of the Chathrand. The protected side. Nearly all had dived in time to escape the fireball, crossed under the Chathrand’s belly, risen unscathed.
Pazel sprinted for the far rail. Neeps was there ahead of him, beckoning. ‘Pazel, look!’
He leaned out over the rail. Among the two hundred or so black-skinned, silver-haired dlomu, one pale olive face stood out. It was Nolcindar.
Nolcindar!
‘Macadra didn’t kill everyone on the Promise,’ said Neeps. ‘She took prisoners. And that means-’
‘Olik!’ cried Bolutu. ‘Prince Olik!’
There he was, stern and serene as ever, helping a wounded dlomu seize the accordion ladder someone had just sent clattering down the hull.
Pazel could scarcely believe what he was seeing: Arqualis and Mzithrinis, helping dlomu (and one selk warrior) out of the waves.
A second ladder appeared. Once on deck, the dlomu knelt in surrender, unbidden. Some kissed the humans’ feet. Prince Olik, among the last from the water, knelt as well.
Sergeant Haddismal pushed forward. ‘Your Highness,’ he said, ‘Captain Fiffengurt’s just spoken. You have the freedom of the ship, but these sailors crewed a boat that’s attacked us twice. We’re to bind them, at least until the fighting’s done. We’ve been double-crossed too many times.’
‘Then bind me also,’ said the prince.
‘And me,’ said Nolcindar. ‘None of these men are officers. They served like slaves on the Death’s Head, and risked their lives to free us from the brig where we were held and tortured. Some leaped overboard and swam to the beach inside the Arrowhead Sound. Those Macadra did not slay fled into the mountains, chased by savage-looking men with tattooed necks.’
The Nessarim, thought Pazel.
The dlomu were holding out their wrists. ‘Bind us!’ they said. ‘Tie us, lock us up. Only do not send us back to her, back to the White Raven. Better to die than to return!’
Something, a surge of anguish, made Pazel turn. The main topsail was gone: the Death’s Head had struck it dead-centre with one of the burning tar projectiles it had used during the chase along the Red Storm.
‘Tree of Heaven, what does it matter if they’re on our side or not?’ said Saroo. ‘There’s enough of ’em still manning those blary weapons. Just look at this ship.’
‘He’s right, Your Highness,’ said Mandric. ‘You should have taken your chances ashore. We’re beaten, and she’s still comin’ on.’
‘We are not beaten,’ said a sharp, high voice.
It was Felthrup. Pazel turned and saw him standing on Captain Fiffengurt’s shoulder. And beside them, between her dogs-
‘Thasha Isiq,’ said Hercol sternly, ‘you promised to stay below.’
‘For as long as it made any difference,’ said Thasha. ‘But it doesn’t, not now. Macadra’s not a fool. She knows I’d have used the Stone to save the Chathrand if I could. And if it comes to a fight — well, I killed her brother. I can kill her too.’
‘Macadra does not have the Nilstone,’ said Felthrup, ‘and while she lacks it, we still have a card to play.’
‘Rin’s truth,’ said Fiffengurt. ‘She’s hurt our rigging, not our hull. We may be dead in the water, but we’re blary far from sunk. Change of orders, Sergeant.’ He waved a hand at the dlomu. ‘These men don’t need shackles, they need swords in their hands. Get busy!’
The crew raced back to their stations. The dlomu who were able leaped up and cried out their readiness to fight.
Pazel put his arm over Thasha’s shoulders. He looked across the dwindling space between the vessels. The deck of Macadra’s ship was a confusion of fires, gears, struggling men, clouds of smoke.
‘Nolcindar!’ Kirishgan raised his kinswoman and embraced her warmly. But Nolcindar’s eyes were grave.
‘The humans are valiant,’ she said in the selk tongue, ‘but if the White Raven closes, all is lost. That ship is full of killers and madmen. They will burn the crew off the topdeck, and kill them below with canisters of gas. Any survivors will be torn apart by athymars, or simply left to drown once she takes the Nilstone and staves in the hull.’
‘We can barely move,’ said Kirishgan. ‘How are we to prevent her from closing?’
Nolcindar had no chance to respond, for at that moment a bird of prey cried just overhead. It was Niriviel, of course. They looked up: the falcon crouched on the main yard, leaning forward, gazing intently at the Death’s Head. Then he shrieked: ‘By the Throne of Arqual! That one!’ He shot away towards Macadra’s ship. ‘What was that about?’ asked Thasha. ‘What in Pitfire did he see?’
Kirishgan narrowed his eyes. ‘There is something. . a small bird, I think. But it flies as if wounded. Yes, that is what Niriviel is aiming for.’
Then both selk winced. ‘Too late,’ said Nolcindar. ‘The bird has fallen into the sea. Unless — well! Your falcon dives better than a fish-eagle. He has snatched the little bird up in his claws.’
Dimly, Pazel saw the falcon returning. Then his eyes were dazzled by several concurrent flashes from the Death’s Head. Three fireballs streaked skyward. But what sort of attack was this? One shot climbed so high that it entered the Swarm, where it vanished without a trace. The other two, wildly off-target, exploded over the empty sea. Cannon-fire followed, but it too was erratic.
Then Pazel saw why.
The Death’s Head was sinking.
Roars of war-engines, howls of fear and rage. Some of those manning the ship’s terrible arms were still trying to bring them to bear on the Chathrand. There were more wild cannon-shots, even as the Death’s Head wallowed deeper.
Pitfire, what’s happening to her?
Gradually the frenzy on the Chathrand subsided; her crew stood transfixed. The vessel’s stern was sinking fastest. On the topdeck, men were fighting, shoving forward and backwards at once. Suddenly, by dint of greater numbers or greater panic, the forward-pushing mob prevailed, and the whole throng moved in a rush. But the shift in weight was catastrophic. On the next wave, the bow came thundering down, and the sea flooded in through the chaser gun
ports.
The deck was awash. Some dlomu were making for Gurishal; many simply vanished into the swirling sea.
‘They were getting ready to board us,’ said Thasha. ‘They’re in armour. Gods of death.’
Not one figure was swimming for the Chathrand.
Pazel had never seen anything like it. Their deadly enemy had foundered. A ship the size of the Chathrand, lost in ten minutes flat.
Hercol approached, with Ensyl on his shoulder. ‘How did it happen?’ Thasha asked her mentor. ‘We never managed to scratch her, did we?’
‘Not through that armour-plating,’ said Ensyl. ‘I cannot guess what breached her, but that iron hastened her sinking, beyond any doubt.’
‘Along with the weapons heaped on her like scrap,’ said Hercol. ‘Still, she must have been seaworthy. She did not fly over the Nelluroq, and-’
His voice trailed off. He gazed at the vanishing wreck, suddenly quite still. Then he exploded, leaping up and catching the mainmast shrouds, and bellowing over the heads of the crew:
‘On guard! On guard! She is coming, the sorceress is coming! It can only be her!’
Pazel never saw it coming. It was simply, suddenly there: a coagulating black smoke that moved like a flock of blackbirds, all around them, touching them with a horrible chill, then pulling together into a low column between the mainmast and the forecastle. The apparition shimmered, formed a torso, limbs, a face.
Macadra stood upon the deck.
Instantly Hercol lashed out with Ildraquin. But just as the blade reached her head, the figure became smoke once again, tunnelled through the air, and reformed closer to the quarterdeck.
She loomed over them: tall and bone-white and deathly. ‘Where is it?’ she shrieked. ‘Bring it to me. Act quickly, and I will let you land this carcass of a ship.’
Nolcindar lunged, faster even than Hercol. This time Macadra did not vanish, but merely shouted a spell-word so powerful it crackled in the air. Nolcindar’s knife shattered like a thing of glass. The selk warrior fell upon the deck, rigid, unable to move a muscle.
Then something rather astonishing happened. The entire crew attacked the sorceress. No one called for it, no one shouted Charge! But charge they did, from every side, and not a soul held back.
Macadra threw up her arms. A pale white light swept away from her. Pazel felt it strike him in the face, and then he felt himself fall, along with scores of others. He was conscious, but his strength had suddenly vanished, and so had that of everyone within ten yards of Macadra. The sorceress stood alone in a wide ring of bodies. She laughed.
‘Come, see reason,’ she said. ‘I could kill you as easily as I have lain you flat. But what if I could not? Suppose you drove me from the Chathrand, what then? Do you know how close you are to death? Thirty hours: that is how long you have before the Swarm seals this world beneath its pall. Shall I tell you what will happen then? It will drop from the skies, and become the death-skin of Alifros. And still it will grow, deeper, thicker, until it is nine miles thick, and the last cold bacterium has perished at the bottom of the Ruling Sea. Then the Night Gods will declare my brother one of their circle, and free him from the kingdom of twilight. But for you it will be too late.
‘I alone can prevent this. Frail creatures like yourselves die at the Stone’s touch, but I will use it to put an end to death. I can do it. I can banish the black horror that even now is destroying your minds. You can feel it, can you not? The madness claiming you, the madness born of too much fear? Come, I am your only saviour. Give me the Nilstone, and live.’
‘Never,’ said Captain Fiffengurt from the quarterdeck. ‘You’ll not divide us, and we’ll not give the Nilstone up. We’ve not sailed round this blary world for nothing. We mean to remove the Stone from Alifros.’
‘By floating it away down the River of Shadows, into death’s Kingdom?’ said Macadra. ‘Has Ramachni truly made you believe it can be done? Simpletons! If only I had time to watch you try!’
Pazel felt a tingling in his toes. His strength was trickling back. Around him, the spell’s other victims were also stirring. That spell cost her. She’s not as strong as she wants us to believe.
‘You fear to land on Gurishal, is that it?’ said Macadra. ‘You fear the Shaggat’s lunatics will come upon you in the night and slit your throats? Well, I will not pretend there is no such danger. But the one who speaks up, and tells me where the Stone is secreted — him I will bear away on wings of sorcery, to a land of his choosing, or to my fair court in Bali Adro, if he prefers, where he will know ease and pleasure and the thanks of Macadra. Only speak. Even your shipmates will thank you, when the Swarm departs the skies.’
She turned in a circle. Only now did she appear to realise that the whole ship had fallen silent, and that hundreds of eyes were upon her.
‘Well?’ she demanded. ‘Who will tell me where they keep it? Who among you wants to live?’
No one moved, no one spoke. Pazel was breathless with pride and gratitude. Every soul on the deck was standing firm.
Then a voice said, ‘I will show you.’
Pazel looked up, and wished he could die. The voice was Myett’s. The ixchel woman stood on the main yard, thirty feet above their heads. And she was not alone: at least one other ixchel was crouching near her, all but hidden by the spar. Further out along the timber crouched Niriviel, eyeing the sorceress with hate.
From the tangle of bodies, Ensyl cried out, heartbroken: ‘Myett! No, sister! You can’t!’
‘It’s the only way,’ said Myett.
‘Be silent, you up there!’ snapped Fiffengurt. ‘That’s an order!’
Macadra was staring up at Myett, perplexed and doubtful. ‘I’ll show you!’ Myett repeated, with a note of desperation. ‘Only don’t let them punish me, and don’t leave me here! I don’t want to die!’
The paralysis ended; Macadra’s victims began to struggle to their feet. ‘Mucking crawlies,’ said Haddismal. ‘Every Gods-damned time.’
‘Myett, who’s up there with you?’ shouted Thasha.
‘Another back-stabbing, ship-sinking louse with legs, that’s who,’ shrieked Oggosk. ‘Kill them!’
Someone hurled a broken timber. Myett dodged, but a hail of objects followed: boots, bottles, hammers, knives. The falcon shrieked: ‘Stop, fools, stop!’ but no one heeded it. Myett leaped for the mast and began to climb. Then a well-aimed chisel struck her in the legs, and she fell.
She never reached the deck. A whirl of black smoke passed under her, lifted her, and bore her away at great speed along the deck. Roaring, the sailors who were still on their feet gave chase. But Macadra was too fast. Pazel saw Myett lift a hand to indicate the tonnage shaft. The black whirlwind flowed over the rail and down into the ship’s dark depths, and Myett went with it.
All was still. The crew stood trapped between confusion and despair. Pazel looked at Thasha. Thasha looked at Hercol. Neeps looked down at Felthrup, and the rat, for once in his life, held stock-still, too mystified even to squirm.
Then, of all people, old Dr Rain spoke up. ‘It isn’t that way, silly crawly. Everyone knows the Nilstone’s in Thasha’s cabin. You should have used the Silver Stair.’
Hercol was looking up at the main yard.
‘You there! Show yourself at once!’
To Pazel’s surprise his command was obeyed: two ixchel men rose and stepped to the edge of the massive beam. One of them was Saturyk, Lord Talag’s enforcer. And the other-
‘You,’ said Hercol.
It was Ludunte: Diadrelu’s former disciple, and the one who had lured her into the trap that took her life.
Ensyl leaped for the mast and began to climb.
‘Sister,’ said, Ludunte, a pleading note in his voice, ‘just give us a moment, please-’
‘I have something else to give you,’ said Ensyl. In all their trials and danger together, Pazel had never heard her like this, enraged to the point of madness, longing to kill. ‘Hercol!’ she shouted, almost snarling, ‘did you love h
er or not? Is her memory sacred to one of us alone?’
Hercol set a hand on the mainmast. Pazel saw the struggle on his face. He too wanted to kill, and was making a terrible effort to restrain himself.
‘Something is not right, Ensyl,’ he said.
‘Nothing is right! She died, they live!’
Ludunte! thought Pazel. Of all the ixchel to show his face, after so long. And what in Pitfire did you say to Myett?
A third ixchel, on hands and knees, appeared at the spar’s edge and looked down. He was clearly wounded and quite feeble. As he struggled to rise Saturyk noticed him and cried out: ‘My lord!’
Too late. The man’s strength gave way, and he toppled from the spar. Hercol lunged, but the distance was too great. The tiny figure struck the deck and lay still.
Pazel and his friends rushed to the spot. Hercol was already kneeling. He lifted the figure, cradling him in both palms. His eyes filled with wonder, and new pain.
It was Lord Taliktrum.
He was struggling to breathe. He wore the remains of his old robe of office, the swallow-suit. But the plumes were scorched, almost melted, and so caked with blood that Pazel doubted the suit could ever again be removed.
‘Fiffengurt,’ he rasped, bloodshot eyes blinking.
The captain appeared moments later, pushing through the crowd. He had already removed his hat.
‘You told me,’ murmured Taliktrum. ‘Not to leave the clan for ever. Not to swear I’d not come back. You were right, in your way. Ah, Olik: well done. The dogs never caught up with you. I am glad.’
‘Warrior and friend,’ said Prince Olik, ‘what last thing would you ask of one who owes you his life?’
Taliktrum only shook his head feebly. Then, with a startling whoosh, another ixchel dived into their midst: Lord Talag. He wore the other swallow-suit, but he bore no weapon, nor even a shirt beneath the robe. His face, nearly always stoic and severe, was like an open wound.
The Night of the Swarm tcv-4 Page 81
