The Night of the Swarm tcv-4

by Robert V. S. Redick

He alighted, and fell to his knees beside his son. They spoke in their own language, and none save Pazel could hear them.

  ‘Father-’

  ‘Hush, my child. I wronged you, wronged the clan from the start. Don’t say you forgive me: there are sins too deep for pardon. Only know I love you, and will work no more evil in this world.’

  ‘I set four charges in their hold, Father, and all four exploded. It was easy. Under all that metal the ship was a twin of the Chathrand. And such an arsenal. They never missed the black powder.’ He managed a ruined smile. ‘And they’d never had an ixchel problem before.’

  Talag closed his eyes. His voice when he found it was low and strained. ‘Four charges. Well, I suppose you’re proud of yourself.’

  ‘The last one caught me. I was burning as I flew. If the falcon hadn’t seen me I’d have drowned along with the giants. You would have done better, sir.’

  ‘No!’ Talag’s eyes snapped open. Then, more gently, he said, ‘That isn’t true, my son.’

  Taliktrum paused, and the smile played again upon his lips. ‘It was glorious,’ he said. ‘It was a work of art.’ His eyes passed over the crowd of humans, and once more he bent his voice for their ears. ‘You say so much that’s vile and ignorant about my people. But one thing you say is true enough. We know how to sink ships.’

  He rolled on his side and coughed a little blood.

  ‘Lord Taliktrum!’ cried Felthrup, in sudden desperation. ‘Do you have no word for Myett?’

  Taliktrum raised his head, and his eyes lit briefly at the name. Then they closed, and the young lord lay still. From above, Saturyk called out, his gruff voice full of sorrow:

  ‘For whatever it’s worth, rat, he told her. For all the good it can do her now.’

  The black force that was Macadra swept through the mass of fallen rigging that clogged the tonnage shaft. Myett, suspended within the whirlwind, could hear the mage’s voice in her mind.

  What are you? Are you magically cursed, to be so small?

  ‘I am an ixchel,’ said Myett, ‘and no, I’m not cursed.’

  And at last she believed it.

  You will be worse than that if you dare lie to me. Which way?

  ‘To the orlop deck, then forward. The Nilstone is in the brig.’

  Locked away from fools who would try to master it, and kill themselves in the bargain!

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Myett. ‘Take the starboard passage. Will you spare me, Mistress?’

  Which way, you louse?

  Myett pointed. She had never been more frightened, or more certain of her choices.

  ‘There’s the door ahead. The small green one.’

  It stood slightly ajar, exactly where Saturyk had promised she would find it. Her clan still existed, still studied the Chathrand, still knew where to find a door that came and went like a mirage. But Macadra was instantly suspicious.

  Just there, unguarded? Behind that crumbling door?

  ‘I’m not lying, Mistress.’

  The whirlwind surged down the passage. Around Myett there was a sudden crackle of excitement.

  I feel it! The Nilstone! You spoke the truth!

  The Green Door flew wide. Myett felt herself carried down the black, cluttered hallway, towards the antique lamp whose glow increased as they approached. Now came the greatest terror. Now she would win life or everlasting torment. It didn’t matter, so long as she won.

  The black whirlwind paused in the centre of the chamber. Two of the four cells stood empty. The third held an ancient corpse. And in the last, seated on a chest, was the human being Myett hated most in the world. Sandor Ott.

  ‘Crawly, is that you?’ he said, squinting at the sudden light.

  Myett felt cold fingers take shape around her: Macadra had resumed her natural form.

  At the sight of the ghastly figure, Ott shrank back with a squeal of fear. ‘Mercy, mercy!’ he cried. ‘Where did you come from? Don’t punish me, I’ve done nothing to anyone! Don’t hurt a poor old man!’

  ‘It’s there, there in his chest,’ said Myett. ‘Will you protect me, Mistress? Let me serve you in the life to come? I may be small, but-’

  The mage flung her viciously to the ground. She advanced to the cell in two strides and flung open the door. ‘Back away, old man!’ she shrieked.

  Ott was only too happy to oblige. As he leaped away, Macadra threw herself on Captain Rose’s sea chest. When she raised the lid, a black light bathed her face.

  She made a fist of her bone-white hand. She closed her eyes and mumbled a spell — or could it have been a prayer? Then her hand plunged into the chest, and emerged holding an orb that burned darker than the soul of midnight.

  Cackling, triumphant, Macadra lifted her prize. ‘It does not kill me! Can you see me, Arunis? I am its mistress — not you, brother, never you! It will be Macadra Hyndrascorm, not Arunis, who takes her place in the court of the eternal ones, who disposes of worlds as she sees fit, who-’

  A harsh clang, metal on metal. Sandor Ott had stepped out of the cell and closed it behind him.

  Macadra took in his changed expression: the terror and the simpering were gone. The little louse-woman’s face had changed as well. Then she knew. An enchanted brig, of course the Chathrand would have one, why hadn’t she guessed? But what of it? No magic in the world could stand against her now. She lowered her hand, grinning despite herself, and summoned the power of the Stone.

  Nothing happened.

  Macadra stared at the throbbing black orb. Sandor Ott turned to Myett, spread his hands and smiled with what looked almost like beneficence. Myett scowled at him.

  ‘It wasn’t for you,’ she said.

  ‘You do not love me, then?’ said Sandor Ott. ‘Not even a little, after all this time?’

  His smile widened into something unpleasant. But Myett stared him down. ‘Love,’ she said at last. ‘You shouldn’t be allowed to speak the word.’

  She ran from the chamber. Ott started to follow, then paused and turned to face the cell with the corpse.

  ‘Thank you for the intelligence, Captain Kurlstaff. And my compliments to Rose, if you should see him. It seems his trinket was good luck after all. Madam-’

  He bowed mockingly to the sorceress, then raced down the passage and through the Green Door, a free man and a patriot, without a moment to lose.

  Macadra stood staring. The Nilstone felt heavy in her hand. She closed her fist about it, tightly, commanded it to obey her, to reveal all its secrets.

  And it did. The black light went out. In her hand lay a small glass eyeball, a panther’s maybe, or a leopard’s. A folly. A trinket. Macadra hurled it away, flew at the door that had no lock, that did not open, that would never open again. The lamp grew dim. And as the darkness deepened, Macadra heard, very faintly, the laughter of invisible men.

  36

  The Wave

  The disc of stars was shrinking.

  Pazel gazed up at the twinkling lights and wanted to speak to them, to offer thanks, or perhaps farewell. The Swarm’s mouth was closing, converging on all sides towards a point somewhat inland from the Arrowhead Sound. It might, he reflected, be the last starlight his world would ever see.

  The sound was only slightly wider than the gigantic rock that marked its entrance. At first the dry, eroding cliffs ran parallel; then they drew much closer together, and the sound become a flooded canyon, crooked and deep. Into this strange fjord they tacked, on two masts and tattered sails. Great black birds swept over them: vultures, probably, although it was too dark to be sure. Their flapping echoed morosely between the silent cliffs.

  There was no wind to speak of. Pazel looked up at the limp canvas: it seemed almost a miracle that they could move at all. But they were moving, and rather smartly. Elkstem and Fegin manned the wheel together, sweating and scrambling. The lookouts strained their eyes for rocks.

  After two miles, a long, grey beach appeared under the western cliffs. Pazel squinted, then felt nausea strike him like a blow to
the face. The beach was strewn with bodies: dlomic bodies, and human. Nothing moved but the carrion-birds, hundreds strong and feasting. All over the Chathrand sailors made the sign of the Tree.

  Prince Olik raised his hand and pointed: a stone staircase, also strewn with bodies, wound its way up the cliff and vanished into the hills.

  ‘The Death’s Head came this far, searching for you,’ he said, ‘and here some of my people tried to flee. A few escaped into Gurishal, but most were driven back to this shore by the Nessarim. Macadra did not discriminate between them: she launched a terrible glass cube over the beach. It exploded, filling the sky with needles, and everyone ashore fell dead. After this Macadra dared sail no farther, but turned her vessel back to the sea.’

  ‘Of course she did,’ said Fiffengurt, ‘and let me say this perfectly clearly: we won’t be able to turn back, if this canyon narrows any further. There’s depth here, I’ll grant you. But a ship needs seaway too. It’s blary suicidal to be squeezing her into this sort of crack.’

  ‘The only act of suicide would be to hesitate, Captain,’ said Hercol, ‘though it gives me no joy to say so. Could the tides offer us no hope of escape?’

  ‘The tides!’ Fiffengurt gave an appalled little laugh. ‘A tidal race would carry us out to sea again, to be sure. In bits and pieces, after the rocks and cliffs had finished with us. As for the keel — well now, the keel. .’

  Fiffengurt let his voice trail off. Pazel knew he must be struggling to keep his mind on higher things, despite all his instincts as a mariner, and as a man who’d served the Chathrand most of his life. Suddenly Pazel wished he could put an arm around the man’s weary shoulders. What was it doing to him, to know that his ship’s long tale was ending?

  Another mile, another silent beach. There were no bodies here, but as they glided past, Kirishgan’s sharp eyes caught sight of a small black animal. It was running alongside them in the surf, trying to keep up. ‘Arpathwin!’ he cried. ‘Hurry, change! Take owl-form and fly to us!’

  The black mink did not change, and was soon falling behind. Fiffengurt called for shorter sails. But as the men furled canvas, his face grew puzzled. The Chathrand did not appear to be slowing.

  Thasha looked at the others in alarm. ‘I don’t think he can change at all,’ she said. ‘I think his powers are gone.’

  ‘Then we will bring him ourselves!’ said Bolutu. ‘Come, Prince-’

  Before they could dive, however, Niriviel leaped from the rail. ‘Stay, the bird is swifter,’ said Hercol, ‘and he has carried heavier loads than one exhausted mink.’

  ‘Undrabust, heave the blary log,’ said Fiffengurt. ‘I could swear we’re gaining speed.’

  Neeps gathered the knotted rope and threw the weighted end into the sound. Moments later he had a reading: ‘Six knots, Captain.’

  Fiffengurt tugged at his beard. ‘You there, aloft!’ he cried at last. ‘Strike the mains, and the topsails also. No, by the Tree, strike all the canvas. You heard me, lads: go to.’

  There was not much canvas left to strike. In short order the two surviving masts stood naked. But the Chathrand plowed on, unchanged. Like a man in a dream, Fiffengurt walked to the rail, snatched off a midshipman’s hat and flung it overboard.

  ‘It’s just bobbing there on the surface,’ he declared. ‘There’s no current at all. Blue devils, what’s making us move?’

  ‘The cargo,’ said Marila.

  Everyone started. ‘How do you figure?’ asked Neeps.

  Marila looked at him. ‘The way most people do. You should try it.’ To the others, she said, ‘Look at Elkstem and Fegin.’

  The two sailors were barely managing to control the wheel. They looked, Pazel had to admit, rather clumsy and inept.

  ‘They know how to sail,’ said Marila, ‘but we’re not sailing. I’ll bet you all the gold on this ship that if they dropped the wheel we’d spin around and float backward.’

  ‘The Nilstone,’ said Thasha, wonder in her voice. ‘It’s in my cabin, near the stern. Marila — you think it’s pulling us?’

  ‘Or pushing,’ said Marila, ‘as long those two can keep us from spinning around.’

  The notion was, to say the least, disconcerting. Pazel could not dismiss it, however. Just hours ago, he and Neeps had wondered what might happen to the Nilstone as they neared their goal. If Marila was right they had their answer.

  Niriviel returned bearing Ramachni, and Thasha ran to him and took him in her arms. Ramachni looked gaunt and haggard, and his fur was singed, but his black eyes gleamed even here in the darkness.

  ‘Gently!’ he said. ‘I am spent as you have never seen me, dearest.’ He looked over the ship. ‘You have roped off the forecastle: just as well. The poison there will linger a long time.’

  ‘Longer than this ship has to live,’ said Niriviel. ‘I will scout ahead.’

  ‘I would feel better if his master were still in a cage,’ said Bolutu, as the falcon climbed into the night.

  ‘The clan will find him,’ said Ensyl. ‘Isn’t that right, Lord Talag?’

  The old lord glanced at her and nodded briefly. His face was careworn; he had barely spoken since the death of his son. Beside him, Myett’s expression was even more distant. Her eyes were glassy; her hands hung limp at her sides. Pazel’s heart went out to her. She had expected her lover to survive his burns. It made no sense, except in the language of the heart.

  Neda touched Hercol on the elbow. In the Mzithrini tongue, she said, ‘We can test Marila’s theory, Asprodel. Just put on the gauntlets and move the Nilstone to another part of the ship.’

  Hercol blinked at her. ‘You’re a genius, Neda Pathkendle.’

  A small crowd descended to Thasha’s cabin; Bolutu carried one of the last lamps with oil left to burn. Thasha donned the gauntlets from Ularamyth as Pazel opened the cabinet. But he could not budge the iron slab. Hercol stepped up beside him Together, muscles straining, they just managed to move it.

  The Nilstone slid into the chamber. Everyone flinched and moved back a step. It had not grown, and Pazel could feel no heat or other force that he could have given a name. But he could feel its power, and its utter wrongness. Looking at it was like gazing down into a bottomless pit.

  ‘The slab wasn’t stuck like before,’ said Pazel. ‘The Nilstone’s gotten heavier, somehow. Much heavier.’

  Thasha put her gauntleted hand on the Nilstone. ‘Credek,’ she swore, ‘I can’t move it an inch.’

  ‘Give me those things,’ said Hercol.

  When both gauntlets covered his hands he squeezed the Nilstone between them, bent low at the knees, and lifted. He groaned with effort. Veins stood out on his neck and forearms. At last he stopped and shook his head.

  ‘Now we know why Erithusme made that slab as strong as a ship’s anchor.’

  ‘And why the stern’s riding so low,’ said Marila.

  ‘Can’t you make up your mind?’ said Neeps. ‘A few minutes ago you told us the Stone was pulling us deeper into the canyon. Now you say it’s pulling down.’

  Again, Marila directed her reply to the others, never glancing at Neeps. ‘It’s pulling towards this “door to death’s kingdom.” Which is somewhere ahead of us and down. That’s what I think, anyway.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Hercol, ‘for if the Stone is truly so heavy that it can alter the balance of the Chathrand, we should not have been able to move that slab with any effort. So why could we? Because the Stone’s own forwards pull was helping us.’

  Neeps was blushing. ‘Marila,’ he said, ‘you’re one smart woman.’

  Marila pinned him with a glance. ‘I’m not sure about that,’ she said, and walked out of the room.

  An awkward silence. Neeps, defiant and ashamed at once, could not meet anyone’s eye. ‘Let’s just get out of here,’ said Thasha at last. She left the cabin, and the others, relieved, filed after her. But at the stateroom door Pazel seized his friend by the elbow.

  ‘I want a word with you.’

  Thasha stayed a
s well. Neeps looked from one to the other. ‘Save your breath,’ he said. ‘You’re not going to take my side, I can tell that already.’

  ‘Gods damn it, I don’t know what your side is,’ said Pazel.

  ‘You wouldn’t, would you?’

  ‘What’s that crack mean, then?’

  ‘It means you’re a one-note whistle,’ said Neeps. ‘You have Thasha. You don’t need anything else. You’ve got it all worked out. But then nothing’s ever mucked with your head, has it?’

  ‘Oh no, mate, never,’ said Pazel acidly.

  ‘You know what I mean!’

  ‘There’s no time for this,’ said Thasha. ‘Listen, Neeps, everything mucks with our heads. Living, dying, magic, hunger, falling in love, falling out of it-’

  ‘Who says I have? Who in the Pits do you two think you are?’

  Crash.

  The deck lurched, and they crashed to the floor. Howls erupted from above and below. The ship had struck, and struck badly. She was rolling, twisting on whatever rock was grinding beneath her keel. The noise! Cracking, splintering, groaning of the ancient wood. Pazel could almost feel it, like a mutilation with a dull instrument of torture.

  Another lurch. The Chathrand had twisted free of the rock and righted herself. But Pazel knew what he had heard. Not damage, but a death-blow. From the lower decks men were screaming already:

  ‘She’s breached! She’s staved! Abandon ship, abandon ship!’

  ‘Marila!’ shouted Neeps. He flew from the stateroom and into the dark passageway. ‘Be careful, damn it!’ Pazel shouted, following as fast as he could.

  On the Silver Stair it was pitch-black. Men were streaming upward, groping, shoving from behind. Pazel heard Mr. Teggatz sob in the darkness: ‘Lost, lost, my home is-’

  Crash.

  A second strike. The ladderway became a chute of bodies. Pazel was hurled backwards onto the landing, and five or six men fell atop him. Somewhere above Neeps was still shouting Marila’s name.

  ‘Out, out or drown!’ men were screaming. The sweaty mass of men groped upward, towards the weak starlight, the slanting deck. Many helped one another. Others trampled and fought. Pazel at last found Neeps, pushing against the tide, and shouting for Marila with rising fear.