Scimitar War

by Chris A. Jackson

  Pointing at the bodies, she called out in a loud voice, “Feast!”

  The responding cries of elation revolted her, but that was something she was just going to have to get used to.

  ≈

  “Holy Odea!”

  Tipos’ sharp whisper drew Paska’s attention from feeding little Koybur. She wasn’t sure what she expected to see—a charging tribe of cannibals, Camilla hurtling some fearful magic at them—but it wasn’t the sight that actually met her eyes. More than a dozen forlorn, naked figures hobbled out of the jungle and down the beach.

  “I’ll be damned to all de Nine Hells,” she whispered as she plucked the baby from her breast, “she did it!”

  Tipos was already in the water and making his way ashore. Paska tucked Koybur down into the cabin, then hastened back to help. Their friends had crossed the sand and entered the surf. Two of the men supported Dura between them when the water became too deep for her. One by one Paska helped them aboard, their giddy laughter making it light work. When Dura tumbled over the gunwale and sprawled gracelessly into the cockpit, she greeted them with a grim smile.

  “By the Maker’s Hammer, you two’re a welcome sight!” Dura folded her arms over her chest. “Don’t suppose ye brung a spare shirt or a pair of britches, did ye?”

  “Sorry, Dura, but no.” Paska shouted for someone to haul up one of the spare sails. “You can hunker under de canvas to stay warm, but I t’ink yer gonna hafta go native ‘til we be gettin’ to Vulture Isle.”

  They quickly pulled the rest of the ex-captives aboard, then Tipos hauled himself up and into the cockpit. There was barely room in the small boat for everyone, and sailing would be tricky with so much weight aboard, but Paska knew they would manage.

  “Vulture Isle?” Dura asked, crinkling her brow. “Why not back to Plume? Don’t tell me those damned pirates are still—”

  “No, Miss Dura, de emperor’s whole bloody navy ran dem bastards off.” Paska made no attempt to soften her caustic tone. Just the thought of Joslan made her fume. She gripped the tiller hard and waved to Tipos to haul the anchor and set the jib. “We not gonna be welcome back dere since we kinda stole de Flothrindel to come rescue you. And,” she lowered her voice and spoke into Dura’s ear, “I t’ink Miss Cammy killed a couple of soldiers in doin’ it.”

  “Speakin’ of which,” Dura said with a pronounced frown, “what in the Nine Hells happened to her?”

  Paska glanced back to the beach, now dark in the fading light, and shook her head. “Dere’s a lot to tell, Miss Dura, but we best get outta here first. Dat cut’s gonna be a mite tricky wit’ hardly any light left an’ so many aboard; we might take on some wata. We need to get all de weight we can down low, and I’m sorry, but dat means you.”

  Many hands helped Dura down the companionway steps. The bow came off the wind as Tipos hauled the anchor aboard, and wind filled the mainsail and jib. Paska held tight to the tiller and angled the boat close to the wind. Muttered voices rose from below as everyone shifted, trying to find a stable position. It was crowded, with some people crouching and others lying low, packed like sail bags in a locker. But they were safe, and that was all that mattered.

  Paska kept her eyes on the ocean, banishing for now all thoughts of the friend they had left behind. She steered toward the cut through the reef, and they beat through the gap and into the open sea.

  Chapter 7

  The Living

  “Almost home,” Paska muttered as Flothrindel rode a swell toward the cut in the reef that protected Vulture Isle. She would normally have no qualms about sailing right through this channel, but the boat was handling sluggishly so heavily laden. She’d paddled through this cut a thousand times in a dugout outrigger, but sailing through with a boatload of people had her nerves on edge.

  Suddenly they were in the channel, surf breaking to both sides, and out again, sailing into the shadow of the island. Paska heaved a sigh of relief, relaxed her death grip on the tiller and smiled at the whoops of joy that rang out from their passengers. Flothrindel cut smoothly through the crystalline water of the lagoon, pearl-white sand below and azure sky above, as Paska pointed them south.

  “Bloody fine bit o’ pilotin’ there, lass,” Dura complimented as she adjusted her sailcloth garment. It wasn’t very attractive, and could not be comfortable, fashioned from a spare jib, but the dwarf’s modesty demanded some sort of covering.

  Despite the laughter and good-natured jests rattling around the crowded little craft, Paska still brooded over Camilla. Abandoning her to the cannibals had been simultaneously heart-wrenching, and a relief. Camilla had willingly sacrificed herself to the pirates to save Paska and the rest, no less a victim than those who had died on the beach. And now…

  Rounding the sweeping curve of the beach, the shore near their village came into sight. As on any normal morning, people were out swimming and spearing lobsters. It had been months since Paska had seen the place of her birth, and she swallowed a lump in her throat, wishing that her homecoming was not tainted by such evil tidings.

  As soon as Flothrindel was sighted, the people on the beach began to wave and shout. Even before Paska and Tipos had anchored the boat, a few of their passengers jumped overboard to swim in, not waiting for the two outrigger canoes that were being deployed to ferry them ashore. Paska took her time, coiling lines and folding the sails, then tended to Koybur, allowing the others first passage to the beach. Shouts of glee turned to cries of grief as the sorrowful news of the pirate attack was related. Paska knew the story, and had no desire to relive it through their words. She had her own tale to tell, and she dreaded telling it.

  When they were finally ashore, Paska was buffeted with conflicting words of praise, sorrow, thanks and even accusation, until she could not tell who was saying what.

  “Quiet!” she shouted, hitching little Koybur up on her hip and silencing his cries by popping a breast into his mouth. She flinched as he promptly bit her. “We must talk, but this isn’t the place! These people are hungry and tired, and many are injured.”

  “Everyone to the village!” Tipos ordered, waving them forward. “We must have food and drink, and then we’ll have a meeting!”

  “What’re ye bloody sayin’?” Dura groused, glaring up at Paska as the throng headed up the trail.

  “Sorry, Dura,” Paska said; she had forgotten that Dura had never learned their language. “We be goin’ to de village. We’ll be havin’ a meeting dere.”

  “And can ye arrange a bite ta eat? I’m fair famished!”

  “Dere be plenty food, don’t you worry,” Paska assured her as they followed the rest up the trail.

  In short order, everyone was assembled in the cool shade of the great banyan trees that ringed the village center. Food was laid out, and the healer and his apprentices began tending to injuries. Dura was looking dubiously at the young woman who knelt in front of her with an obsidian knife, arguing vociferously and pointing at the wound in the dwarf’s leg.

  “It’s goin’ bad,” Paska told the dwarf, pointing at the red, weeping wound in her thigh. “She must open and clean it, den dress it wit’dat.” She pointed to a pot of vile unguent that the village healer prepared from boiled pig fat and various plant extracts. “It sting like fire, but it’ll heal clean.”

  “Here be somet’in’ ta kill de pain, Dura.” Tipos handed the dwarf a hollowed gourd brimming with their fermented fruit drink. “It’s not de drink you like, dat uiskee stuff, but it’ll light a fire in yer tummy.”

  “Ah! Thank’e lad!” Dura downed a huge gulp and sighed. Servers were handing out wooden bowls of meat, fish and fried plantain, and the combination of food and drink brought a genuine smile to her lips. At least until the woman with the knife began her business.

  “So, who gonna be tellin’ all dat be happenin’ here?” a familiar reedy voice asked. Whuafa, th
e village wise man, leaned heavily on his young apprentice as he hobbled up. His already wrinkled face was creased even more with concern. “You got a tale ta be tellin’, no doubt.”

  Paska sighed and nodded. “I don’t t’ink it’s a story only one person can tell, but I t’ink wit’ everyone here, we be able to tell all dat been happening.”

  “Well, let me rest dese old bones and get somet’in’ ta ease me aches, and you all decide who gonna be startin’ wit’ de tellin’.” His apprentice eased the ancient man down onto a mat and brought him a cup of fermented juice.

  The village had not had word from Plume Isle since the battle with the emperor’s flagship. The villagers were concerned by Cynthia’s journey south in search of her child, and outraged by the attack of the pirates and their cannibal allies.

  “If dem cannibals got dere hands on a ship, we be in a pot of trouble, I’m t’inkin’,” Whuafa warned, speaking pidgin so that Dura could understand. Several of the natives understood the language of the light-skinned folk, and there were mumbled translations for those who didn’t.

  “Dey got no ship,” Tipos assured the worried crowd. “But we got annoda problem.” Paska let him tell them of Camilla and her new-found powers. When he told of the wounds of the first soldier killed, Dura’s gasp stopped them short. Paska shivered as Dura told of Camilla’s horrific murder of the cannibals.

  “It’s de old curse come back again, I’m t’inkin’,” Whuafa scowled.

  “Old curse?” Dura asked, her thick brows knitting. “What curse might that be?”

  “De curse what sundered de tribe.” The ancient lore keeper furrowed his brow in worry. “Oua legends say of a curse dat began on Plume Isle, what used to be oua home long, long ago. It be de curse o’ de blood magic.”

  “Blood magic?” Paska vaguely remembered the old tale.

  Whuafa’s voice was low and harsh as he related the legend, and everyone leaned close to hear.

  “Dat’s right, blood magic. De old ones, oua ancestors, caught a demon an’ kept it trapped deep in a cave. Dey give de demon a little bit o’ blood, an’ it give dem magic—blood magic. Den dey foun’ a young white-skin woman. Some o’ dem wantin’ more magic said to sacrifice her to de demon. Some say no, not wantin’ ta kill nobody, even a white-skin, for de magic. Dere be near a war over it. De people what said no left Plume Isle, and dey be oua ancestors. De oddas, dey sacrifice dis woman, and she become de demon itself. She kill near everybody but some few dat escape. But from dat day on, dey carry de blood curse, an’ dey started eatin’ what should neva be eaten.”

  “The cannibals,” Dura said, and received a sad nod of confirmation from Whuafa.

  Paska and Tipos looked at each other, then at Whuafa. “Miss Cammy was trapped in dat old witch’s lair under de keep,” Paska said. “She shoulda been dead afta all dat time, but she wasn’t. She said she drank de wata dere. It musta somehow survived in dere, de demon—Hydra.”

  “Hydra…” Dura muttered a dwarvish curse and made a warding sign.

  “Dat be what I’m t’inkin’,” Whuafa said, his face collapsing into a mass of wrinkles. “De question be, what can be done ‘bout it?”

  ≈

  Upton’s slim fingers rifled expertly through the drawers, cabinets and the large wardrobe in Count Norris’ chambers. He delved between the mattresses and into the pillowcases of the great canopied bed. In the end, the only items not belonging to the count were some lady’s undergarments, one corset, some hair brushes and similar toilet articles, and a partially finished dress and some sewing supplies. He thought of the empty sewing box in Camilla’s room; though its hinges were bent, it would still serve to hold the thread tray and tangle of fabrics and trims.

  Why bring this here without the box? He held the fabrics to his nose; under the scent of cologne, there was the barest hint of that curious odor from the box…

  Too many questions rattled around inside his mind, and Upton didn’t like questions he couldn’t answer. Deep in thought, he turned back to the sitting room, which he had already searched. His hand had just closed on the latch of the outer door when a shrill voice sounded from beyond.

  “But Father, they were the ones who asked me if I wanted to play! It’s not my fault if they don’t know the odds.”

  It was the boy, Tim, and that meant it was also the count. Upton dashed for the balcony and secreted himself behind the open drapes and mosquito netting, as still as stone, his breath as silent as a butterfly’s wings.

  “It doesn’t matter, Timothy.” The count’s voice was harsh and commanding. “Gambling for money is not something a young gentleman should not be doing. Not at your age, anyway.” The latch rattled and door slammed open. The count’s heavy tread and labored breathing reached Upton’s ears. He longed to peek out from behind the drapes, but dared not. “As a matter of fact, as soon as this situation is settled and we’re back in Tsing, I’ll be enrolling you in a proper school.”

  “By this situation, you mean Miss Cammy, don’t you, Father?”

  Upton smiled at the boy’s obvious ploy to turn the subject away from his own misbehavior. This new subject was of much more interest to him, as well; he cocked his head and listened intently.

  “Yes, Tim, I mean the situation with Camilla,” the count said, his voice more weary than angry now, heavy with doubt and anguish. “Do you think Paska and Tipos took her, Tim?”

  Upton tensed; he could learn more in the next thirty seconds than he could in hours of rifling through drawers.

  “No, I don’t, Father. It just doesn’t make sense.” Upton could not disagree with that; nothing about this made sense. “I’ve known Tipos and Paska for two years, and they wouldn’t kill someone just to take Flothrindel.”

  “You think…” The count’s voice broke, and he cleared his throat before he continued in a low tone harsh with dread. “You think it was them, don’t you?”

  Tim’s tone echoed his father’s. “It’s the only thing that fits. The cannibals could have hidden in the jungle after the attack. Paska said that they have powerful shamans. That would explain the broken dock and the fog. And taking Paska and Tipos would make sense, because the cannibals don’t sail. But why would they take Miss Cammy?”

  “She’s a rare prize, Tim. If they hid in the hopes of taking more prisoners, they could hardly have done better than to take her.” Upon heard the count collapse onto the divan and heave a ragged sigh. “Gods, I hope they’re all right.”

  “I’m sorry, Father,” Tim said, his tone soft. Upton risked a peek. The count sat on the divan, his head in his hands, his shoulders heaving. His son sat beside him, awkwardly patting his father’s shoulder. “But if the admiral won’t send out a rescue, there’s nothing we can do.”

  “I know, but…” The count sat up, his cheeks glistening with tears. “I’m sorry, Tim, but I can’t…I need to be alone.” Norris stood and fled to the bedchamber, sniffing loudly into a handkerchief. The door latched with deafening finality.

  Upton watched the boy pace for a few tense minutes, then head out the door. Upton moved silently from his hiding place and pressed his ear to the wood. The boy’s footsteps pounded down the stairs, then faded. The spymaster slipped out and turned the opposite direction. He had much to consider before he spoke to Joslan about this investigation, and still too many unanswered questions.

  ≈

  “Do you think he bought it?” Tim heard his father ask from the bedchamber as he and Huffington entered the suite. The count emerged toweling his face dry, his eyes red from the onion he had rubbed into them to aid in their deception.

  “Hard to say yet, milord,” Huffington answered before Tim could congratulate his father on his performance. “Don’t know if he took it hook, line and sinker, as they say, but it seems that the bait was well swallowed. He learned a bit of what he’s been wanting to know; now w
e wait to see if he’s satisfied with the story.”

  “As long as it turns his suspicions from Camilla. Thank you for the notion, Huffington. I knew I could count on you.”

  Tim looked curiously at his father and the heartfelt gratitude he gave his secretary; he’d never heard his father use such a tone with an underling. He regarded Huffington anew. Tim had never really cared for him, but he had to admit, the man’s skills at deception were formidable.

  “With any luck he’ll report our little drama to the admiral.” Norris sniffed and looked at him through his still-watering eyes. “You did well, Tim.”

  “And you, Father. I nearly thought you were sobbing, myself.”

  “Well, I’d best be off, milord,” Huffington said with a short bow and a nod to Tim. “Got to see where the good spymaster’s off to.”

  “Very well, Huffington.” Norris clapped the man on the shoulder with genuine affection. “Be careful.”

  “Always am, milord.” He smiled his thin smile and left the room.

  Tim watched him go. He hoped the man’s skills were as good as his father touted; to get Camilla and their other friends back, they were going to need all of them.

  ≈

  Camilla shivered as she slipped into the cool, clear water of the jungle pool. The demon shuddered in revulsion at the water’s touch, but it was well fed, and she could suppress its urges. She turned her back to the gawking tribe, unlaced her bodice, and slipped her blood-caked dress over her head. Gasps and murmurs sounded behind her, and she caught a few words, like ghost, skin and pale.

  There was some argument among the cannibals, but she tried to ignore it. They were always arguing. They had not left her alone since her arrival, and the constant stares and whispers grated on her nerves. She was loath to undress before their leering eyes, but she needed to be clean; the blood-fouled dress reeked, the material stiff against her skin.