by Larry Niven
It was Princess Tahlia who ran back to the forecastle, looking out into the darkness, her eyes widening as, from the spray and the darkness, emerged the silhouettes of a vast armada.
Sailing ships, not steamers.
“It’s the fleet!” she screamed, sobbing in relief and joy. “It’s my mother’s fleet!”
And it was, breaking from the mist beneath a hollow moon, the Quillian fleet heading north.
Neoloth’s desperate message to the queen had gone through.
FORTY-ONE
Boarding
In an instant, the game had changed. The steamers ceased to concentrate their fire on the Pelican and began to array for battle against the Quillian fleet. Although they were outmatched in size and cannon, they outnumbered the fleet two to one and were far more mobile.
The steamers rose and fell on the crashing waves that now sent floods of water and deafening noise onto the deck of the Pelican.
Pelican sped forward as if its heart was buoyed by the arrival of allies. The first of the Quillian ships closed around her, blocking her from the first line of steamers.
Aros, Gold, Tahlia, the Red Nun, and Drasilljah stood at the poop, watching the battle rage. The Quillian fleet had the gun power to defeat the smaller boats … if only they would stand still. But steamers could maneuver against the wind with a baffling facility, their plumes of steam rising up through the rain, the smaller vessels rising and falling on the swells, which the Quillian ships had never prepared for.
The roar of cannon was deafening, and the smell of the smoke, even in the drenching rain, hung over them in a pall.
The entire Quillian fleet was not here, as those aboard the Pelican had originally thought. It was six ships against twenty smaller ones and two larger ships, and through the telescope, Neoloth watched the bow of the flagship and saw General Silith’s massive shape on the bow, surrounded by officers.
Neoloth handed the glass to Aros, and he focused in turn. “That’s not Silith,” he said. “But this is the Shrike navy, and I’m betting most of these men think that it’s him.”
One of the Quillian ships was burning now, foundering, having taken cannonade after cannonade. As they watched, it began to break in two, sailors leaping overboard into the maelstrom, most quickly sucked down.
“Oh my God,” Tahlia whispered. “We can’t win.”
And then … something happened. Out of the blackness of the ocean something horrible came. An eight-foot writhing tentacle grasped one of the sailors, but instead of pulling him down, it lifted him up and placed him on the deck of the Pelican.
Something was happening to one of the steamers. It began spinning in a circle, as if its rudder had been broken or bent. Another of the steamers began to founder, its bow dipping down until the sailors screamed, and the water flooded its boiler so that the steam died.
Neoloth watched carefully, eyes narrowed, water pouring down his face from the rain, and he pointed. “There!”
They saw a finny tail shape on the waves, swiftly diving out of sight.
“Merfolk!” he cried. The Merfolk and their allies had arrived.
And, almost overwhelmed with relief as he was, he understood what this meant. The magical folk, driven to the ocean’s depths or to the desert barrens to survive, understood that this was the last stand for all of them. If the magicians of the Hundred had their way, they would bring devices from the future more powerful than magic, draining the magic from the world in the process. They would control everything, and everyone.
Magic might already be a dying form, a dead art. But this would accelerate it. Here and now, in the ocean north of Quillia, they had decided to take their stand.
There were shapes in the ocean that he had never seen, and hoped never to see again. Monsters and monstrous shapes that were not fish or land animals or men but squiddy things with parrot beaks and arms that reached out to the decks and lifted men up to rend them apart.
So exposed, the cannon could find them, and the steamers had more, had the ability to gush fire in the rain, a harmless weapon against waterlogged ships but searing to flesh, even flesh so strange as this.
They could hear the screams, smell charred meat when the wind shifted to their direction.
Even with the magical folk, the battle seemed too even. And then … it was not even anymore.
Shrike’s flagship bore forward, and now when they saw it more clearly, saw that the bow was reinforced with metal, some kind of cutting arrangement, such that as it came forward it struck one of the Quillian vessels amidships. With a grinding crash, the ship split, wood splinters cascading in all directions as the ship died.
It was coming directly at them. Coming straight for them.
“To your cabin, Princess!” Gold screamed.
“I’ll miss it all! Drasilljah, no!”
A cannon’s roar exploded wood splinters across the deck, and Neoloth felt it pluck at him and was dazed.
“Drop anchor!” Gold screamed, and they heard the chain whir as the anchor was released. It struck bottom, and the chain slacked, then tautened. The Pelican began to swing sideways, so that the flagship could not strike her solidly.
But grappling hooks attached to thick brown ropes were cast down from the higher deck, piercing the Pelican’s sides.
Men jumped down from the higher deck onto their ship, brandishing swords and shoulder pipes, and the battle was on.
* * *
Now, at last, Aros had something to do other than watch the carnage. Snarling, he threw himself into the fray, Flaygod in one hand and Captain Gold’s good strong Quillian steel in the other. Shrike’s men came in waves, but the Pelican’s crew had been wound like springs, running all day from their foe, and now that the enemies were before them, the crew was eager to come to close quarters and do real damage.
The storm thundered down on the desperate struggle, the waves crashing against the bow, shaking it repeatedly under the black clouds, the lightning above and the flash of steel below creating a nightmarish situation where the enemy was only clearly visible for moments at a time. But in those moments, the cleaving of skulls and lopping of limbs, the screams as men were blasted at close range by the shoulder cannons were terrifying.
And now there was another crash that shook them all, as one of the Quillian fleet smashed into the enemy vessel from the far side, and it was boarded in turn. Clearly, everyone understood that this vessel, the Pelican, was the key to all of it. This was where the fight would end. Most of the ships were heading toward them, tying on with grapnels such that the maze of steamers and sail ships, of rope and chains and hooks, the swarms of Shrikian and Quillian sailors swarming along the lines toward them made, in the middle of the storm, something like a floating island peopled by men and ruled by madness.
Aros noted that Neoloth, the Red Nun, and Drasilljah were on the quarterdeck before the princess’s room, barring passage. Lights swirled up there, and men who tried to approach were skewered by lightning that rocked the ship. A storm must make lightning easy for wizards.
Even granting that, Aros was confused. This was mighty magic. From whence could such power be drawn? Then three men came at him, and he was forced to wipe the water and blood out of his face, set his feet, and fight.
His Quillian steel wrought havoc, but it was Flaygod that cut the widest swath. Aros cleared the deck around him, smashing bones and caving skulls as much as cutting flesh. With the deck around him cleared for a moment, he put the sword between his teeth, slammed Flaygod into its scabbard, and climbed the rigging, seeking a better view of what was happening.
There was a balance, precarious now, between the forces of Quillia and those of Shrike and the mermen and their allies, now battling across the decks and in the ocean, cannon, swords, and tentacles all taking their share of lives below him.
He saw Captain Gold battling in the forecastle next to his nephew Dorgan, who was flinging men around like dolls. Not much of a swordsman, yet the giant was worth three of the others in
sheer ferocity.
“For the princess!” men cried. “For Shrike!” others answered, and the uniforms mingled so that, often, men seemed not to know who was a brother and who an enemy until they were face-to-face, close enough to see the style of sword.
And then … Aros saw General Silith.
Silith was dead, of course. It had to be the wizard Neoloth had spoken of, Belot. But watching him, even if a double, cutting his (her? its?) way through the troops made his heart sink. Double or not, the wizard had the general’s style, as if taking his visage allowed him to access that skill. He was heading toward Neoloth, and the princess.
Aros dove into the fray, landing on the slick deck in three-point balance, snarling defiance into the rain. “Time for you to die,” he called.
The false general cocked his head, shaking blood and water from his weapon. “You must be the Aztec I’ve heard of,” he said.
“I am.”
“Good,” Belot said. The wizard’s voice was a strange blend of Silith’s baritone and a deeply musical woman’s contralto. He’d never heard the like. “You have caused me trouble, but nothing I cannot undo, after all of you are dead. The war has merely started early.”
“And there’s nothing here that steel cannot undo,” Aros said. “Look out for your head.”
And with that Aros came at him.
There was something that he had learned from his battle with the general—that battle ferocity alone was not enough, that somehow there had to be a part of you watching the fight as it unfolded, like an angel above or demon below. That was the gift that Silith had given him. And from that perspective, Aros knew that the wizard had all of Silith’s technique. Every stroke, block, and piece of footwork. His thrusts and parries were almost as fast, his arm almost as strong. If Aros had not sparred with the real general and then battled beside him, he would have been dead in seconds.
Aros compensated by moving backward, giving way while probing for flaws. There were none, and for a moment he felt despair.
Then it dawned on him that the wizard was predictable.
Aros could see his every next move. He had Silith’s moves, his skill, but not his spontaneous ability to combine them in new and disorienting ways. The instant intuitive creativity was missing.
And that lack of instant adaptation gave Aros time to adjust. He noticed something else: the wizard was not as strong as Silith had been. Magic and knowledge hadn’t quite compensated for a lifetime of wielding that sword, with all the strength and endurance that implied. Regardless of the wizard’s powers, Aros’s exertions were beginning to stress it. Its eyes were not quite human now. They were empty holes, deep as the chasm between sanity and madness. The mouth a thin line, like a sword slash in wet flesh. In the flashes of light, he saw things, things that chilled him.
It was Silith. It was not.
It was a man. It was a woman. Mere flashes. The lightning revealed such things for moments only, and then the night concealed them again.
“I took his skill,” it hissed. “Sucked it from his marrow as he died. As I will take yours.” But, Aros wondered, was it speaking to him? Or to itself? Was it quite as confident as it wanted him to believe?
Lightning crashed overhead, and that awful glare again revealed a face that was both male and female and larger than either a normal man’s or woman’s. Not human at all.
But this time, the men around them saw the horror and fell back, screaming, “That ain’t the general!” And the murmur ran through them, and they backed away from the men they had been hacking.
“General Silith is dead!” the thing screamed above the roar of the wind. “I, Belot, the One, am in command!”
“I ain’t fightin’ for no wizard!” one of the men screamed. “Hold up! I fight for king and general!”
There were screams of shared agreement, and the thing in the general’s costume struck the sailor down. He groaned and sank, his brains spilled onto the deck.
The men around him grumbled, retreating, swords high but refusing to fight.
“I am in charge!” Belot shrieked. “I am greater than any general, any king, and I—”
And in that moment’s distraction, Aros stabbed him through the side ribs, pierced the creature’s heart. Not a particularly honorable thing to do, he knew.
But, after all, he was a barbarian.
FORTY-TWO
Waging Peace
Belot, the creature who had masqueraded as General Silith, slid to the deck. The male-female form wasted away as well, revealing something beneath that was part squid, part ape. Something that might have thrived on an earlier, less sane world.
And then … it melted away as well, as if its true form was nothing appropriate for this world.
“What was it?” Captain Gold asked, as his surgeon bandaged his arm.
“One of the old ones,” Neoloth said. “We used to pray to them.” Aros turned and looked at his companion. There was something wrong with the wizard. He seemed … old.
The Shrike sailors seemed uncertain. Their commander was the first to speak. “What now? We sailed thinking we had been commanded by our general. If we stop fighting you now … what happens?”
There was general murmuring from both sets of combatants. What indeed? Wars had begun over events far more trivial than the kidnapping of a princess or an assault on a royal fleet.
“I can tell you what will happen,” Tahlia said. “I am Princess Tahlia, of Quillia.” She was dressed in a rough cotton robe, not a crown, but she managed to make it regal.
“Princess,” the admiral said. In genuflecting rows, the sailors of the Quillian navy went to one knee before her.
She extended her hand to the admiral, and, after a moment’s pause, he took it and kissed the back.
“What will you tell your mother, Princess Tahlia? Whither do we go from here?”
“Home,” the princess said. “There has been enough death this day. I will tell my mother that I was stolen by the Hundred, by a monster which imitated the form of the general and others to foment war. And that the good people of Shrike, once they became aware of this abomination, freed me and fought with me against this evil, and assisted in returning me home. Further, I will say that the good people of Shrike wish nothing but kinship with Quillia and that your act of kindness and fealty to your rightful king can and should be considered the first act in a new and better relationship between Shrike and the other seven kingdoms. By this act, you have earned my friendship and undying gratitude of the queen of Quillia.”
And Aros knew that in that statement she meant not merely her mother, but the woman she would be, for this was the first act of a woman who deserved the title queen in every way.
* * *
The lines were untied, the damaged ships evaluated, sailors returned to their vessels. Once war is begun, it is difficult to put those dogs back in the kennel, but every sailor there knew that the future of their nations depended on courtesy and caution for the next hours. By the time the lines were untied, the damaged ships evaluated, the sailors returned to their vessels and the Shrike vessels headed north, all were ready to breathe a sigh of relief.
The sailors marveled at the magical creatures that danced on the waves around them as the storm died down and calm returned to the waters.
Aros had watched Neoloth. Something had happened to the man he now considered … if not a friend, then certainly a companion. An ally who understood him entirely too well.
“Help me,” Neoloth whispered, and Aros assisted him to his feet. The princess was being transferred to the flagship of the Quillian navy, which fortunately had not sustained great damage.
“Will you come with me?” the princess asked. She must have noticed that there was something amiss with Neoloth. His complexion had gone pasty, and streaks of white ran in his hair.
“No, no,” he said. “I’ll be on soon. I promise.” He managed to wink at her. “More spells to be done, first. Gratitude to our helpers.”
She didn’t s
eem to believe him totally, but there was little she could say. She and Drasilljah walked the gangplank over to the other ship, and with a final look back over her shoulder, disappeared onto the deck. The plank was struck, and slowly, ponderously, the great ship began to turn, its oars stroking the water until its sails could catch the wind and power her home.
And then Neoloth collapsed.
* * *
The escape and subsequent battle had taken all of the old wizard’s strength.
Aros bent over him. “By the serpent!” he said. “Your hair! Your face!”
Neoloth reached up a trembling hand to clasp Aros’s arm. The wizard’s hand was knobbed and wrinkled. “Well, it was worth it.”
“Worth what?” Aros asked.
“I’ve used spells to keep me young, so that the last bit of magic was in me. I gave it up to work with the Red Nun and Drasilljah to protect Tahlia.”
“How … old are you?” Aros asked. And there was a tenderness in the Aztec’s eyes that he thought never to see. How strange, for such a thing at the very end of life.
“Too old to count birthdays.” He laughed. A wheezing sound.
The world whirled and faded, and when it returned the Red Nun stood beside him.
“What can I do?” she asked.
“There is nothing,” he sighed, exhaling as if he no longer had the strength to keep breath in his body. “I paid the price for victory, and I’m satisfied with what I purchased.”
Aros held the wizard’s hand. Neoloth could see it withering even as he watched. What was he now? He couldn’t even remember his years, but they had to be more than …
His mind was growing dim. How strange to be here now, surrounded by these people in the last moments of his long and strange life.
Captain Gold appeared in his wavering vision. Looked at him with concern, but his face was … strange. “Aros,” he said. “Bring the wizard to the side of the ship.”
“Why?” the Aztec asked.
“He’s asked for.”
