Scimitar War

by Chris A. Jackson

  “Good ta see you be livin’.”

  “Well, that makes one of us,” she said, her voice a hoarse rattle. She turned to see who spoke. It was Quada; their captors had moved the cages around. She grinned and winked at him, and said, “Was hopin’ they’d lose patience and kill me.”

  “Na. Dey’re too careful fer dat, though you took down two dat won’t be gettin’ up again.” He chuckled dryly. “And dat woman wit’ da knife, she gonna be pissin’ blood fer days.”

  Dura chuckled without much humor. Truly, her plan had been to simply kill as many of them as possible and die trying. She hadn’t accomplished much.

  “You got dey’re attention, though. Never seen a dwarf, let alone a dwarf woman, much less one without clothes.” Quada chuckled again.

  “Fat lot of good it did,” Dura said, massaging her sore neck. The braided leather had left a nasty abrasion and a deep bruise.

  “Well, in a couple of days ya might be wishin’ ya hadn’t done it.” Quada’s tone had turned grave, and she looked to see him shaking his head. “You impressed dem so much dat you be da next one dey be takin’.”

  “Yer sure?” she asked, a cold knot of fear forming in her gut.

  “I be understandin’ dem good enough,” Quada assured her, nodding to the milling mass of cannibals, arguing over something. “Dey not happy wit’ Pica killin’ herself like dat, but dey don’t take nobody today. Two days, dey take de next, and dey want you.”

  ≈

  “I thought it was getting better.” Emil paced the floor of his chambers, his face a mask of worry. “Yesterday you said you felt better, whole again, and now…”

  Camilla watched him, wringing a sodden kerchief in her lap. She had managed to keep her wits until she reached Emil’s rooms, then the fear had overwhelmed her and she had broken down in his arms. Every time she closed her eyes she saw blood: on her nightgown, in the scratches she’d inflicted on Emil’s chest. She breathed in its thick, heady aroma, yearned for its gloriously sweet taste. She imaged she saw the soldier’s blood drenching the dock and dripping into the warm, salty sea. She swallowed, horrified that her mouth was actually watering. Camilla clenched the kerchief in her trembling fists, wringing it until the embroidered linen tore.

  “And I did think I was getting better. I really did. I thought…I thought it was just dreams. And at first it was, but now…” She shifted uncomfortably, trying to concentrate through the pounding in her ears. “Now I’m seeing things while I’m awake, things that I don’t know…I don’t know if they’re real or not!”

  “What kind of things?” he asked, not for the first time. Camilla could see him struggling with his own feelings, wanting to help her, but frustrated because she wouldn’t tell him exactly what was wrong. But how could she tell him what she had found in her sewing box? That the visions and feelings were getting stronger, more insistent. Her reluctance was born of fear: fear that she had somehow killed that poor soldier, fear that she was going mad, fear that he, the only man she had ever loved, would turn away her. And fear of what she might do to him if he didn’t.

  “Horrible things, Emil,” she admitted as she picked at the threads of the shredded kerchief and sighed. “People dying.”

  “Parek? Do you see him?”

  Camilla looked up at him, saw in his eyes the hope that the pirate was the source of her distress, because pirates were real, easily disposed of by the law or sword. How could she tell him that her fears were not so simple? How could she look into his eyes and see the loathing that he must feel if she told him the truth? The blood on her nightgown, on her hands, the visions she’d experienced, the things she heard, felt…like Emil’s beating heart.

  “I…” she began, but the horror gripped her like a hand around her throat, preventing her from spilling her bloody confession. She had thought the pounding in her ears had been her own pulse, but it wasn’t. It was Emil’s. Even now, eyes wide open, she could feel the blood racing through his veins, but she couldn’t tell him; the words would not come. Instead, the tears spilled down her cheeks. She buried her face in her kerchief and sobbed.

  “It’s all right, my dear. I swear to you, it’s all right.” Emil sat beside her and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a protective embrace. His voice thick with worry, he said, “He can’t harm you here. He’ll never harm you again, I promise!”

  Camilla’s could feel his heart beating against her shoulder, steady and strong, and so close…Her shoulders heaved with sob after wracking sob. His hand stroking her hair was no comfort, for she wept not out of fear of Parek, as he thought, but in anguish at the lie she let him believe. She could not tell him the truth, could not confide in him, the one man who truly loved her despite all she was, all she’d done, all she’d been…slave, kept woman, whore…monster.

  “How can you even stand to touch me?” she gasped between sobs.

  “How can I…Camilla.” He touched her chin, pulled her face up to his. “I love you, Camilla, no matter what that bastard Parek did to you. You saved us: Tim, me, Paska, little Koybur…everyone! Without you, we’d all have been taken by those beasts. You’ve got more courage than anyone I’ve ever met, and I love you for it.”

  He kissed her, and she tasted the salt of her tears mingled between their lips. He held her tight, and his heart beat against her breasts; steady and strong, and so close. Heat surged through her body, enflaming her desire, carnal and…something else. A void that she needed to fill lest she be lost forever, empty and powerless.

  A flashing vision: teeth in flesh, warm salty blood pouring down her throat in a delicious torrent…

  Take him!

  With a cry, Camilla shoved him away and scrambled back until she stood with her back against the wall. She heaved air into her lungs, trying to rid her mind of the sweet scent of his blood.

  “Emil, no, please!” she begged when he opened his mouth to speak. “I’m sorry.” She turned away, clenching the kerchief so hard that the bones of her fingers ached, and her nails dug into the flesh of her palms. She had been so close…so very close to giving in to the whisper in her mind, sinking her teeth into his willing flesh, rending his skin with her nails.

  “No, I’m sorry, my dear,” Emil said sadly. She heard him stand, and he stepped up behind her, placed his warm, loving hands on her shoulders.

  She shuddered, wracked with horror and desire, fear…and hunger.

  “Please,” she pleaded through clenched teeth, shrugging off his hands. “Please, Emil. I need to be alone now. I can’t…I can’t think straight.”

  “Then let me help you, Camilla,” he said, his voice thick with tears. “Let me try.”

  “You can’t help me,” she said, finally turning to look at him, at his anguished features, at the love so clearly painted on his face. “Not now. Please.”

  “Very well.” His shoulders stiffened as if she had just stabbed a knife into his heart. “I’ll go see what Tim’s up to. But I’ll be back, and we’ll deal with this. I will help you, Camilla, whatever it takes. I promise.”

  “Thank you, Emil,” she said, her heart breaking at the pain she’d caused him. “I’m sorry.”

  Camilla turned away again and heard him leave. To her ears, the soft click of the latch was as clear as a hammer pounding a metal spike into her heart. She heaved a breath as the sound of his pulse receded, and her driving hunger eased. Tears still coursed down her cheeks, and she brought the sodden kerchief up to wipe them away. She stopped, and stared.

  The embroidered linen was torn and stained with her blood, but the stains were black and the cloth smoldered as if eaten by acid. Bits of crumbling linen fell to the floor as she opened her hands and stared at her palms. Her nails had lacerated her flesh, and the gaping wounds oozed black ichor.

  A memory rose in her mind, as clear as crystal: a hand grasping the blade of a
dagger thrust into a table and sliding up the blade, black ichor spilling onto the table cloth, hissing and smoking. Hydra’s blood…

  “Oh, dear Gods of Light, no!” Camilla cried softly. Even as she stared in terror, the wounds on her hands closed and vanished as if they had never been.

  Chapter 3

  Decisions

  “Eight bells, Cyn,” Feldrin said, ducking his head through the cabin door with an apologetic grin.

  “I’m ready,” Cynthia said, laying little Kloe down on their bunk in his swaddling blankets, fed, burped, changed and utterly contented. She brushed his smooth cheek and smiled. Her heart swelled with love for him, but was also heavy with guilt over what it had cost. She turned away before she burst into tears. She didn’t have time for any more tears. She had a job to do.

  Cynthia followed Feldrin out of the cabin. Someone would check on Kloe regularly and bring him up on deck for his feedings, but she would not be able to spend any real time with him until the dog watch, eight hours hence. It felt like a lifetime. Feldrin turned into the galley and she made her way onto deck as twenty-four exhausted sailors rose from their makeshift benches and stowed the long sweeps. They smiled at her, knuckling their foreheads in respect and admiration, and mumbling their good mornings and good wishes.

  Guilt… How could she ever repay them for their sacrifices?

  “Good mornin’, Mistress,” Chula said, his face set in stone as he saluted smartly. The morning watch was his. She could see that the burden of guilt at losing Peggy’s Dream still weighed heavily on his broad shoulders, no matter how many times she’d told him that abandoning and burning the ship to save the crew had been the right thing to do. “We be ready for de wind whenever you are.”

  “Feldrin mentioned that we were low on water, so I thought I’d conjure a little rain first.” Mouse flew down from somewhere aloft and landed on her shoulder with a yawn. He’d probably been up all night.

  “Aye, Mistress,” he said with a rare smile. He shouted orders, and the crew scurried about, closing open hatches, rigging tarps to catch rain, and hauling up empty barrels to fill. Even the off-watches came up on deck bearing buckets, pots, pans and water skins, and readied scrub bushes and soap for cleaning. Their eager faces all looked toward Cynthia; a good rain shower would be a treat.

  Cynthia stood by the rail and looked out over the still blue ocean. Taking a deep breath, she coaxed sea and wind, gently urging them to heed her call. Moisture—never hard to come by in this tropical climate—burdened the air, so thick she could taste it. She sent it soaring high aloft, into the cool dust-laden winds. The moisture condensed on the tiny dust particles, the friction from their congress inciting crackles of static in the rigging as clouds formed. In no time, the sky above the ship burgeoned with thick, dark clouds.

  “Ready, Chula?”

  “Ready, Shambata Daroo!” he shouted, his smile splitting into a grin.

  “Okay, then.” She smiled back and nudged the winds inside the clouds, establishing a convective flow that forced more warm air to rise. The moisture-laden air rose until tiny droplets of water condensed and began to fall. As with most things in nature, all it took was a touch to incite a deluge.

  Delighted shouts rang out as the first fat drops plopped into the sea around them, leaving brief bubbles behind. More rain fell, and the patter became a hiss, then a roar. Mouse chirped in glee and flew around the deck, rain misting with his passage. Sailors whooped in glee and stripped off their salt-stained clothing. Water splattered onto the tarps and flowed freely along the waxed cloth. Once they were rinsed clean, the rain was directed into buckets, barrels and every conceivable receptacle. Everyone laughed and joked as they washed and drank their fill, wet skin both dark and light side by side, soap changing hands as people scrubbed with abandon.

  Cynthia tilted her face to the sky and watched Mouse flying through the rigging, letting the clean water and laughter wash away her worries.

  “Very nice!” Feldrin’s booming voice brought her out of her reverie, and she turned to look at him. Her husband was soaked to the skin and grinning, water dripping off his beard and eyebrows, his curly black hair plastered flat. He held up a wedge of scented soap. “Scrub yer back?”

  “Maybe later,” she said. “My modesty’s still a little too intact for public bathing.”

  “Suit yerself,” he said, handing the soap off to another.

  A splash beside the ship drew their attention, and she watched as the concentric ripples radiating out from the point of impact were dampened flat by the rain. Tailwalker surfaced and rose to waist depth to sign, *You made the water from the sky, Seamage Flaxal Brelak?*

  *Yes,* she signed back, *for cleaning and swallowing.* Mer didn’t have words for washing or drinking, and certainly didn’t have a term for rain. *We will continue soon, but I will hunt today also. Tell me if you see any large fish.*

  *There are many where the weed is thick. We have even seen the great sword noses and tuna that are too large for us to spear.* He indicated the short harpoon that the sailors had fashioned for him and Chaser, and made a sign of gratitude. *Not too big for you, though.*

  *No, and a few of them would feed us all for days. Sign to me if you see some near.*

  He signed that he would and splashed back down into the water, flipping his tail hard.

  “What was that all about?”

  “Dinner,” she said with a smile. “How do you feel about tuna or marlin?”

  “Right now I’d eat one raw, scales, tail and all, rather than open another barrel of salt pork!”

  “Capt’n!” Chula said, saluting with one hand while he adjusted his loincloth with the other. “Mistress, we be full up on de wata barrels, and all hands had a good bath. We be ready to get unda’ way any time.”

  “All right, Chula. Just let me change out of these wet things first.”

  “You can’t do yer little trick?” Feldrin asked, his brow crinkling.

  “Not with fresh water. It only works with…” Looking at her own and Feldrin’s sopping clothes, a thought came to her. She urged the sea around the ship to propel them forward out of the induced shower. Mouse landed on her shoulder, laughing and shaking water from his wings. She held out her hand and said, “Come here.”

  “What?” He put his hand in hers dutifully, but looked reluctant when she pulled him to the boarding hatch. “You don’t mean to…”

  “Do you want to be dry, or spend half the day in soggy clothes?”

  “Uh…I’d like to be dry, but I don’t much fancy goin’ fer a swim, either.”

  “Just stand still,” she said, calling to the sea with her mind, “and hold your breath.”

  A tendril of water squirmed up the side of the ship and through the boarding hatch, pooling at their feet. She brought it up to envelop them. Mouse yelped in alarm and flew off, and she smiled at Feldrin’s startled look. The seawater mixed with the fresh on their skin, hair and clothes, then she willed it away, pushing the sea back down, urging it to take the last vestiges of moisture with it. When the water slipped back down the side of the hull, they were as dry as toast.

  “You never cease to surprise me, Cyn,” Feldrin said with a deep breath, smiling at the laughter and jests from the crew.

  “Good to know there’s still a little mystery in our relationship,” she replied. Refreshed by the shower, Cynthia focused on her task. The mer would let her know when a fish suitable for dinner was nearby; until then, she would use her talents to push them ever closer to home. Placing her hands on the rail, she called to the winds and sea, then nodded to Chula.

  “Man de braces and tend yer sheets!” he shouted as the canvas cracked and filled, and Orin’s Pride surged homeward.

  ≈

  “I don’t see how it would be possible, Paska.” Tipos spoke in their native language to keep the conver
sation private from the imperials. He toed a bit of metal from the ashes of the burned shipyard building—the head of a chisel, warped and rusted, its wooden handle burned away—picked it up and tossed it into the growing scrap pile. He wondered if Dura was alive, and what she would say about all the ships’ plans and tools, gone forever. “Have you seen the chain and lock they have on Flothrindel? And there are two guards on the dock all night. They’d have to be silenced, and quickly—noise would draw more like rotten mangoes draw flies.”

  “It would mean killing the guards, that’s for sure,” she said, and he could hear the angry undertone of her words.

  “Yes, it would, and that’s why we can’t do it. If we kill soldiers, they’ll come after us for vengeance, and there’re too many for our people to fight.”

  “Yes, there are too many. We can’t fight them and we can’t run away, because they have ships and we don’t.” Sighing in frustration, Paska kicked a piece of charred wood out of their way, carefully avoiding the rusted nails sticking out of it.

  “That’s exactly right, Paska.” Tipos picked up the head of an awl and grimaced at the pitted steel; it would have to be reforged. He tossed it on the scrap heap.

  “Ah!” Paska yelped. Little Koybur giggled, then resumed suckling noisily at Paska’s breast. Tipos looked sidelong at the baby, but even this sight couldn’t rouse him from his depression. He smiled anyway.

  “He’s got quite a grip on you.”

  “Yes, and he bites like a shark sometimes,” she said with a chuckle, as she kissed her son’s head. Her smile faded as she stared across the water at the graceful smack Flothrindel bobbing alongside the shipyard dock. “Which reminds me of that fellow who was killed the other night.” She looked at Tipos and furrowed her brow. “You think there are cannibals still on the island?”