“I don't.”
“You do.”
“I don't know what you're talking about,” he grunted, turning once again to leave. Her hand tightened on his arm.
“You're doing it now,” she said, though a smile crept onto her face. Dormael couldn't help but match it, and before he knew it, he was grinning at her like an idiot.
“Let me go, Shawna.”
“Only after you admit that I'm right,” she smiled.
“That will never happen,” he smiled back.
She showed him her teeth. “Fine.”
Crippling pain went through his leg, and he crumpled onto the girl's cot. It took a moment for him to realize that she had hit him right in his wound, and once the surprise faded, laughter took its place. His leg hurt like there was a small animal burrowing around in his thigh muscle, but for some reason he couldn't stop laughing.
“Fine,” he said after they had calmed down. “You're welcome. Is that good enough?”
“I'm not sure if I believe your act, you know,” she said.
“Oh?”
“Yes. You strut around, flirting with everything that breathes air and walks by you, and act like you don't care about anything,” she said. “But you dote on that little girl like she's your own, and you took the time to patch me up when you shouldn't have. Something doesn't make sense.”
“Maybe I just wanted to bed you.”
She punched him hard in the shoulder. “Maybe you should learn how to talk to me properly.”
Dormael struggled once again to his feet and made his way to the door. Shawna didn't attack him further, but watched him leave with a wry expression on her face. He stopped on the verge of leaving, though, and turned back to her.
“If you really think that something doesn't make sense, then why did you tell Bethany not to believe anything that comes out of my mouth?”
Shawna smiled and waved him away. “Don't worry about that. That's just something my mother told me when I was a little girl.”
Dormael paused. “Your mother...Shawna, that doesn't make any damned sense, either.”
“To you, maybe,” she smiled. “Let me know if I need to move from this cot.”
Dormael sighed and made his way back out onto the deck.
He huddled into the corner between a crate and part of the hull, trying to pick a spot on deck that was out of the way. Mind-flight would leave his body unable to react lest the ship roll and toss him overboard. The last thing Dormael planned on doing was drowning while his mind was flying over the waves. Such things had happened to wizards before, and Dormael tried to be careful not to make any of the worst mistakes. The feeling of the ship against his back made him acutely aware of the rolling motion. It made him a little dizzy, but he walled the sensation away as he summoned his magic.
The noises of Seacutter faded as his mind soared upward, leaving his body huddled in its corner on the deck. Dormael looked out over the sea, and felt suddenly apprehensive at the breadth of the churning ocean. Seacutter stayed upright with surprising ease, but every swell that slammed against her tensed Dormael's emotions. The ship looked too small to handle the sea, her power too insubstantial to withstand the absolute fury that the Stormy Sea could throw at her.
He turned his sight to the horizon, shaking off the awe. The breadth of the coming storm was immense, and from Dormael's perspective it stretched over the whole northeastern section of the sky. The size of the thing told him that they'd be beneath it for days, and it was gaining ground on them. It didn't look like anything Seacutter couldn't handle, though—at least as far as Dormael knew.
He spotted the mysterious vessel in the distance to the southeast, and took off in that direction.
Dormael was no expert on ships, but he could tell when a vessel had been built with war in mind. Even from a distance, he spotted the high-sided hull, and a sail plan so crowded that he was surprised the sails stayed lashed to their yardarms. She was beating through the seas on a course that would see her intercept the Seacutter, and even as the thought blossomed in his mind she turned to take on more speed. Her standard, a huge rendition of a black fist over a halved red and white field, whipped out from the mainmast in the heavy winds.
He knew it well—it was the standard of the Galanian Empire.
Dormael cursed and flew low over the ship to get a better look at her. She was immense, and practically crawled with crewmen. Two massive ballistae sat on either end of the deck, and Dormael felt a chill as he saw that they were each designed to hurl five spear-sized missiles at a time, which sat waiting in crates next to the hulking things. Armed men milled about here and there, checking over the ballistae, or conversing in tight groups. At least fifteen were standing out in the weather, which meant there had to be more of them below.
Seacutter was fast, sleek, and true, but one look at this beast of a ship filled Dormael with dread. She was at least a full deck taller than the Orrisan ship, and looked as if she could plow straight through it and keep on sailing. The siege engines on deck would rain death on them, and there would be nowhere to hide. Mikael's men were no warriors, as he'd said, and there was no telling how many trained soldiers were waiting to hand them all a good killing.
The gods have certainly shit on us today, he thought.
He blinked his physical eyes back open, wincing at the cold wind that he could suddenly feel. It took him a moment to stand and work some feeling back into his thawing limbs, and his wound hurt from the chill. His eyes went to the southeast, where the huge warship was hurtling in their direction like death herself.
Dormael gritted his teeth and went in search of Mikael.
***
Mikael stared across the map table at Dormael and D'Jenn, puffing on a nondescript pipe. Dormael and D'Jenn had also taken the opportunity for a smoke, having ducked into Mikael's cabin to talk. The news of the warship hadn't gone over any better than Dormael had thought it would.
“Far be it from me to sour on a deal well struck,” Mikael said around a cloud of smoke, “but I've a few questions on why a gods-damned warship is bearing down on us. Hadrick said your girl was an Imperial fugitive. A criminal, he said. Only I've never heard of a fully outfitted warship chasing a gods-damned fugitive.”
“It's definitely something we didn't expect,” D'Jenn said. “Who could have known they'd have a ship?”
Mikael’s scowl darkened. “She's close enough now that I've gotten a look at her sails. She's a poor imitation of a Sheran galleon, but good enough that it won't be much of fight when she catches us.”
“When, not if?” Dormael asked.
Mikael nodded. “Seacutter would out-sail her in lighter conditions, when the seas weren't such a concern. We have a lighter keel, and a sleeker beam than she does, and with all the sail we can hang, we'd outrun her in steady wind. Even in moderate seas.”
“So why can't you outrun her now?” D'Jenn asked.
“The bloody storm,” Mikael cursed. “The seas are too rough. That galleon has a deeper keel, she's heavier and can take the churn a little better than we can. That means she can hang more sail in higher winds. We'll tear our sails, or crack a mast, before we outrun her in this chop. I know my ship, and she won't be able to take that much stress.”
“So it's a fight either way,” Dormael said. “That's not good. They've got ballistae on board that could put a spear through two men at once, and they can loose five of those bloody spears at a time. There aren't enough crates on board to put up any barriers, and I'm not sure they'd do the trick, anyway.”
“Once that storm reaches us, those things would become just as hazardous as the spears,” Mikael said. “Not a good idea to have crates bouncing around the deck in this kind of weather.”
“We won't be able to guard against the spears and fight. We don't have time to prepare anything that would work,” D'Jenn said, rubbing his goatee. “Good magical defenses take time to construct.”
“My men won't be much help,” Mikael sighed, “not against Red
Swords. They'll fight for their lives, but against that...I don't know. I almost wish the bloody storm was on top of us.”
“Why?” Dormael asked, incredulity filling him at the statement.
“Only a man with a death-wish would fight in a storm, Blessed. There'd be no way to get a bead on us with those ballistae, and I doubt they'd try to board in a churning sea with rain beating down on them. Might as well tell men to jump in and drown themselves.”
Dormael looked to D'Jenn, and caught his cousin's significant glance.
“What?” Mikael asked, catching the look that passed between them.
“How long can you sail in that storm before you have to pull everything in?” D'Jenn asked.
Mikael grimaced. “Not long. The ship can only take so much force from the wind and the sea in the first place—lots of things could give way. That doesn't take into account how dangerous it is to have my crew crawling over the rigging and pulling lines in that kind of weather.”
D'Jenn nodded. “What if I bolster your mast a bit, will that buy you some time under sail?”
Mikael shrugged in response. “A bit, maybe. I'll sail her as long as I feel it's safe.”
D'Jenn nodded again, a thoughtful expression on his face. “There’s something we can do, then. It might work, and it might not. It's dangerous, but the warship is coming no matter what we do. This will buy us a little time, maybe give us a slight advantage.”
“If you can buy us a little more time under sail, we might be able to outrun her, but it will be a slim chance,” Mikael said. “The galleon can still take the sea better than Seacutter, but if she has to pull her sails down first, there's no way that tub will catch us before the storm takes us both.”
“What do you think we should do?” Dormael asked, looking to D'Jenn.
D'Jenn smiled at his cousin. “We try and bring the storm to us.”
***
Dormael stared into the wind, surveying the storm that chased them over the water. Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distant murk of clouds, and the swish of breaking water around the bow answered it in kind. The galleon was close enough now that Dormael could make out the flag whipping in the wind, and see her sails poking over every swell in the sea. Crewmen shot fearful glances at the ship as they hurried about their duties, and Dormael caught more than one walking by the place they'd stacked their weapons, as if assuring themselves of their presence. Dormael couldn't blame them—that warship looked like nothing less than their doom rushing down upon them.
“What did Shawna say when you told her it was a Galanian vessel?” Dormael asked.
“She said it was time she'd bloodied her swords, anyway,” D'Jenn said. “She was practically fondling the things when I came in. She seems like she's in an odd mood.”
Dormael just nodded and gazed back into the storm. D'Jenn punched him in the shoulder.
“Are you ready?” he asked, proffering his Doomba—the drum he carried around under his rucksack. It was carved with intricate geometrical patterns, and made from wood, bone, and goatskin. It produced different tones when struck in various ways, and D'Jenn was well practiced.
“Aye, I'm ready,” Dormael grumbled, gesturing to his guitar. “I hope this doesn't take too much out of us. We'll still need a little fight left over if they catch up to us.”
“If this works, then they won't catch us, and it won't matter,” D'Jenn said. “All we can do is what we can.”
“Are you quoting our grandmother to me right now?” Dormael asked, regarding his cousin with a raised eyebrow. It had been something she said to them as children. All we can do is what we can. It hadn't made much sense to Dormael until he was older, but hearing it from D'Jenn surprised him.
D'Jenn shrugged. “Even an old woman gets something right every once in a while.”
“I'm going to tell her you called her old.”
“She'll never believe you,” D'Jenn replied, shaking his head. “If, however, I turn it around and say it was you that said it...well, it is the sort of thing we expect from you.”
“Fuck yourself,” Dormael laughed. “Let's get this over with, shall we?”
“You take the lead,” D'Jenn nodded. “You were always better at this sort of wild magic than I was.”
Dormael took up his guitar. He opened his Kai and pulled on his magic, letting it flow into the world and twine itself with the wind. D'Jenn's song began to ring out as Dormael felt the familiar tingling sensation. Dormael melded his power with D'Jenn's, taking control of the link, and closed his eyes.
He began to play his guitar, letting his fingers pick out the tune his heart wanted for the situation. Something melancholy began to come out, but with a deliberate rhythm that sounded like a military marching song. It came slowly at first, as Dormael settled into the tune, but once he started on the melody, it had grown into something with form and direction.
D'Jenn began to beat an accompaniment on his drum, reinforcing the menacing sound of the tune. It evoked images in Dormael's mind of a faceless army on the move, like an unstoppable force of nature. The magic surged with each beat of the drum, as if their power was being struck right along with it.
Throom-throom-throom-ratata-throom-throom-throom.
Dormael's perception expanded as he sank into his magical senses. He could feel the storm behind them like a roiling cloud of energy, a conflagration of nature's raw power. The wind sang to him like the music of existence, and the thunder vibrated his bones.
Throom-throom-throom-ratata-throom-throom-throom.
He sent their power whispering into the clouds, spinning webs of energy into the boiling storm above. It seemed as if the sky was listening to them, being coaxed to wakefulness by the song. Lighting flickered somewhere in the darkening clouds, and thunder cracked in time with D'Jenn's drumbeats.
Dormael could feel everything happening around him as if the world crawled over his skin. Odd things happened when wizards used wild magic—especially if it was augmented with music, or by other stimuli. The crew of Seacutter had begun to tap out D'Jenn's rhythm on whatever surface was at hand, entranced by some eldritch side effect of the cousins' spell. Dormael felt every sharp beat tapped out in time like flashes of light across his mind's eye, and it sent their magic into a frenzy.
Throom-throom-throom-ratata-throom-throom-throom.
A strong gust blew past the ship, causing the sails to flutter and snap as the wind filled them to bursting. Dormael, still taken with the song as if it was a force of its own, saw fingers of dark clouds reaching out in their direction, as if the storm was a giant hand trying to catch them in its grip. Lightning flashed into the water in random strikes, and thunder rumbled across the sky as the storm awoke to its purpose.
Dormael let his magic sleep as the spell took its course, and the music was replaced with howling wind and churning seas. D'Jenn stood and offered him a hand, and Dormael grunted as he put weight once again on his injured leg. The crew all regarded the storm with awestruck, fearful expressions, and Dormael couldn't help but feel a little strange when those looks were turned on him and D'Jenn. Even Mikael looked a little white in the face, but he held his incredulity in check.
“I'm not so sure that I like this plan anymore,” Mikael said, regarding the storm that was quickly overtaking them.
“Not exactly a plan,” D'Jenn said. “More like a last-ditch effort.”
“All we did was stir the storm up a little, anyway,” Dormael said. “We gave it a little energy, and a little direction.”
“You say that like you just went for afternoon tea,” Mikael said, looking at them as if he'd never seen them before. Sevenlanders afforded great status upon magic users, and even celebrated them, but many westerners only had a passing understanding of the power. Being confronted with it on such a scale always affected people in different ways.
“My cousin has a talent for understatement,” D'Jenn smiled.
“Still,” Mikael said, eyeing the darkening storm, “I'm not so sure I like the cure more
than the sickness. I hope you can keep your end of the bargain, Blessed. If we lose a mast—or a sail—in this weather, we'll die just as sure as if that warship had caught us.”
“I'll do my part,” D'Jenn said. “You just keep us above water, Captain.”
Mikael nodded and strode away, calling vociferous commands as the rain began to pelt the deck.
“I'm going to get this guitar out of the rain,” Dormael said, moving for the gangway that led to their cabins.
“I'll meet you down there after I take care of the masts,” D'Jenn replied.
Dormael nodded and moved on, ducking through the corridor that led into the creaking interior of the ship. Just as he moved inside, he heard the rain come down on the deck with a vengeance. It wouldn't be long before their ride would grow much more interesting—and more dangerous.
He came face-to-face with Shawna as she was headed outside. She had slipped back into her armor, and belted her swords on as well. She was wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, but it looked like it could be removed in short order, should she need to do so. Her expression was a bit haunted, and Dormael almost asked her if she was alright. The look in her eyes, though, stilled his words before they could escape his throat.
“Are they getting close?” she asked in a tight voice.
“Aye. We're hoping that the storm will change that, though, so we can outrun them.”
“Why would we want to do that?”
Dormael paused, unsure if she had been serious. “Well, it is what we've been doing for weeks, now.”
“Maybe I'm tired of running. It's time to get this over with,” she said. She reached down and fingered the hilt of one of her swords, looking in the general direction of the galleon as if she could see it through the hull. “If I die, then so be it. But I'm going to find the man responsible for my family's murders, and pay him back with steel.”
Dormael was taken aback by the vicious tone in her voice. “Shawna...that warship has enough men to do for us all, not to mention the weapons on board. Mikael's men won't be any help, either. We're on our own out here, and no one but the gods are watching.”
The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection Page 35
