Scimitar War

by Chris A. Jackson

  “Well,” Feldrin said quietly “what do you think his chances are?”

  “Of saving Camilla, or surviving the attempt?” she asked. Cynthia returned to her bunk and sat next to Kloe, adjusted his wrap. The babe was sleeping soundly. Mouse was curled up next to him, one tiny hand on the child’s breast, his wings fluttering to provide some breeze in the stifling confines.

  “Either.”

  “Impossible and not good, respectively.” She leaned back and stroked Kloe’s gossamer hair. Mouse stirred, then settled down again. He did not like the confinement, and Cynthia found herself wishing that he’d stayed with Chula aboard Orin’s Pride. But she knew he would never leave her, and if she were imprisoned, it would kill the little sprite. “Not much better than ours.”

  ≈

  Huffington leaned against Resolute’s rail, enjoying the breeze that blew across the azure waters. Tim wasn’t so peaceful. The boy tapped his foot and tossed another glare at Commodore Henkle, who was pacing the quarterdeck, impatient to have his armada under way. The man had grudgingly allowed the count below to speak to the prisoners, but had insisted that Tim and Huffington remain on deck. Nearby, the two frigates and the drake assigned to escort Resolute were already hoisting sails and tacking to remain on station while they waited for the larger warship.

  “Relax, Tim,” Huffington advised. “Fidgeting won’t speed things up.”

  Tim snapped him a look then sighed. “I know, but—” They both stiffened at the sight of Count Norris’ familiar blue coat emerging from the stern castle, his face a mask of anxiety. “Any ideas, Father?”

  “Perhaps, but we’ll have to get to Vulture Isle, and quickly, before Joslan sends a warship.” Norris nodded toward the waiting launch. “Come on; I’ve got to speak to the admiral.”

  “Again?” Tim’s tone almost made Huffington smile. They shared a common opinion of the admiral.

  “I’m afraid so. He may not like it, but we’re going to take Flothrindel. I’ve just got to convince him that it’s in his own best interest to let us.”

  “And how do you plan to do that, milord?” Huffington asked. He wondered if it might be easier to just steal the little boat than to try to convince the admiral of anything.

  “With the seamage on her way to Tsing, the admiral’s orders are to secure the Shattered Isles. As His Majesty’s ambassador, it’s only logical that I negotiate with the natives, don’t you think?”

  “I do believe you’ve got something there, milord.” Huffington smiled in relief. His master was thinking clearly and taking action, just like his old self. “Just tell me what you need, and I’ll see to it.”

  “We’ll see to it,” stressed Tim, flashing a furtive smile to the secretary. Huffington nodded and returned it.

  “Very good then. Let’s get to work!”

  There was a new sense of purpose in the count as he climbed down the boarding ladder into the launch. Tim and Huffington followed, and the sailors dipped their oars to row them ashore. Before Huffington lost sight of the ship, Resolute was underway. The ship was off to Tsing with the seamage, Huffington’s last duty to the emperor safe in her brig. Huffington took a deep breath. Despite the seriousness of Camilla’s situation, he found himself grinning; he was Count Norris’ man once again, and nothing had felt so good in weeks.

  ≈

  Shelly placed her webbed hand against the hull of the huge ship. She could sense the magic of the seamage there, though it was quiescent. She flipped her tail and did a roll of excitement.

  *We have found her, Farsee!* she signed to her cousin, indicating the looming bulk of the warship overhead. *The seamage is here!*

  *We should go tell the trident holder,* he said as he looked around, twitching his fins in uneasiness. *We should not be so close to the warships.*

  *But the seamage is aboard this ship,* Shelly protested. It was moving away from the others, three smaller ships in company, sailing north. *If she leaves, we will not know where she has gone to. Follow me!* she ordered, and swam rapidly away. Shelly thrummed a quick greeting to Shellbreaker and Forktail, another pair assigned by Broadtail to watch the seamage’s island.

  *Greetings!* she signed hastily. *The seamage is being taken away aboard a warship. Farsee and I will follow. You must tell the trident holder that we go north.*

  Shellbreaker’s colors shifted in confusion. *But we were told not to go near the warships! You should remain here.*

  *I am telling you what we are doing, not asking your permission,* Shelly signed, her fins flaring in challenge. *We go now. If you do not inform my father, he will be angrier with you than with me.*

  She turned and shot back toward the ship containing the seamage before they could argue again…and before she lost her nerve. Her father would not be pleased, but she had heard some of what Tailwalker had told their parents, of how the seamage was afraid that she might have to go to the city of the landwalker emperor. If the seamage was taken away and not allowed to return, they might never find her.

  She reached the warship with the seamage, grasped the vessel’s immense rudder, and grinned at her cousin. *This ship is huge, Farsee. We can ride it for days and they will not even know we are here.* Shelly drew her dagger and pried a long goose-necked barnacle from the rudder braces. She popped the morsel into her mouth and swallowed. *And it even provides us with food for the trip.*

  She was pleased to see him flutter his gills at her joke, then his colors shifted to darker, more serious tones. *How far do you think they will take the seamage?*

  *I do not know,* she admitted. *Perhaps many tides at this speed.*

  They settled in for the ride, gripping the rudder post with one hand and signing with the other.

  *I never knew the ocean was so big,* Farsee signed. *Do you think any mer has gone so far north?*

  *There are many schools, Farsee. My father says that there are mer even where it is so cold that the surface of the water grows hard as rock, and the great leviathan feeds on schools of krill so thick you can eat and swim at the same time!*

  *Too cold for me,* he signed with a shiver of his tail. *Do you think they will take the seamage that far?*

  *I hope not, Farsee, but I know one thing for certain!* She shifted dark, suddenly serious.

  *What?*

  *You worry too much!* She fluttered her gills at his pained expression and flipped her tail, swimming forward until she rode the bow wake of the huge ship. She surfed the underwater pressure wave with little effort, flipping her fins only occasionally to steer. Her brother Tailwalker wasn’t the only one who could have adventures!

  ≈

  “Ah, Count Norris, do come in!” Joslan put his pen aside and flexed his aching hand.

  He’d been drafting letters and reports all afternoon, but he was in high spirits; both the seamage and pyromage threats had been neutralized with little effort and not a single man lost. All that remained for him to do was to establish a permanent garrison, and Plume Isle was the perfect place for it. He would have the shipyard rebuilt, sturdy housing for troops constructed, and the keep remodeled as officers’ quarters; everything he needed to permanently secure the Shattered Isles. Not even the bothersome count could dim his good mood.

  “How can I help you?” He smiled genuinely and waved at an empty chair, signaling his steward to refill his cup, and bring another cup and saucer. “I rather expected you to be aboard Resolute, bound for Tsing.”

  “Actually, Admiral, I am here to propose how I might help you.” The count took the proffered chair, but declined the blackbrew.

  “Really?” he said, instantly wary. Considering their past conflicts, Joslan was dubious.

  “Yes, Admiral.”

  “And how exactly do you propose to help me?”

  “As I understand it, Admiral, your remaining task here is to s
ecure the Shattered Isles, ensuring them safe for commercial and military traffic. Is that not so?”

  “It is, Milord Count, and I’ve a sufficient military force to make it so.”

  “No doubt, Admiral, no doubt at all. But there are risks.” Norris paused, his face grave. “To secure the islands, you must neutralize the cannibal threat. As you said yourself, any assault would be dangerous in the extreme. You don’t know the lay of the land, their deployment, fortifications or even their numbers. I believe there is a way I can give you all that information, and provide you with a significant force of experienced woodsmen.”

  “You speak of the local natives, of course,” Joslan said. He squinted at the count and pursed his lips, wondering what the man was up to. “The ones I’ve spoken to are reluctant to aid us, though they have agreed not to hinder our operation, as long as I allow them to live here peacefully.” He raised an eyebrow and sipped his blackbrew. “Do you think you can reach a better agreement?”

  “Not with the natives here, Admiral, but with the main tribe on Vulture Isle. I am, after all, the emperor’s ambassador. It is my job to negotiate with potential allies.”

  “You propose to accompany Captain Donnely south?” The prospect had merit, especially considering Donnely’s temperament; the man tended to be rash in deed and action, and the count could provide a valuable calming influence in dealing with the natives. “I could assign you to the Cape Storm, certainly.”

  “Actually, Admiral, I suggest a preliminary delegation. If I could speak with the village leaders before a warship is anchored off their shore, negotiations might progress more smoothly and more to your benefit. I know from my association with the natives here that their tribe has no love of the cannibals. They have been fighting an inconclusive war with them for years. They may be willing to help, if given the proper inducement. The carrot before the stick, as it were.”

  “What kind of inducement?”

  “Allow them to retain possession of Vulture Isle, with no military interference, as long as they remain peaceful and willing to work with the military personnel you station here.”

  Joslan thought about the proposal. Such an alliance would reduce the risk of his operation, at little or no cost. “I think I can authorize such an agreement,” he said, “but I dislike the idea of sending you out without protection, Milord Count. There are, as you say, dangers.”

  “The natives are well acquainted with the dangers between here and Vulture Isle, and a swift craft could evade most of them. My man Huffington is a…careful sort, and he knows two native men in particular who sailed with him from Tsing. I’m sure they’d be willing to accompany us.”

  “You think to take Flothrindel!” Joslan said. He knew the count wouldn’t offer him assistance that didn’t also benefit his own goals. The man meant to rescue Lady Camilla from the cannibals, even though, by all accounts, she was likely already dead. He opened his mouth to deny the request out of hand, then reconsidered. Surely the count wouldn’t consider invading the cannibal island with only a couple of men, which meant that he would first secure an alliance with the friendly natives. But could he trust the count to keep his word and not run off on his own, as he had before? He needed some way to ensure Norris’ compliance.

  “The craft can accommodate a few more,” he said. “For your safety, I will assign you a military contingent.”

  “I understand your concerns, Admiral,” Norris started, but Joslan cut him off.

  “My concerns are that the emperor’s ambassador remains safe in a hostile area. I will assign one officer and two marines. Any more than that and the smack would be overloaded.”

  Norris smiled and bowed his head. “Thank you, Admiral. Their presence will be welcome.”

  “Very well!” Joslan smiled and reached for pen and paper. “I’ll draft the order right now, and have Donnely assign capable men to your service. You can leave first thing in the morning.”

  “With respect, Admiral, I suggest we leave as soon as may be. Within the hour if possible.” Joslan opened his mouth to protest, but the count raised his hand. “Please, Admiral, there is not a moment to lose. The Cape Storm is due to leave for Vulture Isle in the morning, and initial negotiations must be concluded before the presence of a warship douses the sincerity of our proposal. One must proffer the carrot before the stick looms overhead.”

  Joslan scowled; he hated being dictated to, especially by this self-serving blueblood. But try as he might, he couldn’t find a hole in the man’s logic. He scratched a quick order to Captain Donnely. “Very well, Milord Count, I’ll have someone take this to Captain Donnely directly, and you can be off when all is ready.” He rang a small bell as he blew on the orders. A ship’s boy stood at his elbow before the ink was dry. He rolled the parchment, tied it with a bit of string and handed it to the lad. “Take this to Captain Donnely without delay. Will that suffice, Milord Count?”

  “Yes, Admiral, thank you. That will suffice nicely. I’ll be ready to leave within the hour.”

  The count stood, bowed and left with the boy.

  “Ready to leave,” Joslan said to himself when the door was safely closed behind them, “and finally out of my hair!”

  ≈

  A centipede trundled across the back of Tipos’ hand as he paused between two jutting roots of an ancient tree. A tree frog peeped a piercing cry next to his ear, invisible in the dark, just as he was. With deep, slow breaths, he scanned the living, breathing jungle, only muted starlight and the flashes of fireflies and glow worms aiding his sight. Shrouded in a blanket of living darkness, accepted as part of it, he knew he was safe, at least for the moment. The cacophony of frogs, birds and insects told him so. Here, silence was an alarm decrying the intruder. But Tipos was not an intruder; he was born to the jungle and it knew him. When the centipede had moved on, he eased forward, a shadow in the darkness, feeling with his toes before every step, brushing the leaves and branches with his fingertips only. In a snail’s pace dance, where a single misstep meant his life, he probed deeper into the territory of their deadliest enemies.

  Spying on the cannibals was something that Tipos did very well. It was a rite of passage among his people. You did it well, or you didn’t return. Of course, they usually spied on the small tribe that made their home in the northeast highlands of Vulture Isle. This was unfamiliar territory, but the jungle was the same.

  He was less than five long strides from the sentries when he spotted them. They were also part of the jungle, but they were paying more attention to the distant clamor descending from their village than their own surroundings. He veered around them. Killing them would have been easy, but that was not why he was here.

  Finally, Tipos neared the village. Larger than the cannibals’ village on Vulture Isle, it was as big as his own. He lowered himself to the loamy jungle floor and crept closer, feeling every twig and leaf, inch by careful inch, keeping his eyes downcast lest they reflect the firelight and give him away. The drums and chanting grew so loud he felt his heart echo the beat. He positioned himself beyond a cluster of torches; anyone looking in his direction would be blinded by the flames, unable to see into the shadows beyond. He, however, had a perfect view, and what he saw left him staring in open-mouthed shock. For one moment, all his stealth and care were forgotten.

  “Miss Camilla…” he whispered in despair. The sound of his own voice startled him out of his awe. He checked his surroundings, ensuring that no one else had heard, then turned his eyes back to the woman he had once known as Camilla.

  She stood straight and tall in the torchlight, a pillar of flame with her crimson hair and dress. Her lips glistened against skin as pale as milk, her eyes twin splinters of obsidian. So beautiful, but there was something else there, too, a cold hunger thirsting for warmth. Smoldering power, and hunger…

  The cannibals encircled her—young and old, men and women—the
entire tribe. They knelt with their heads touching the earth, murmuring the vile mantra that was their religion: “Blood, flesh, life, death. Beating heart, warm breath. Blade stills heart. Blood flows. Heart’s power to the victor goes…”

  On and on the chant went as Camilla turned a slow circle, her black eyes raking over the prostrate forms. Are they bowing in worship or cowering in fear? he wondered, noting how they kept their eyes down, as if trying to hide when her gaze passed over them, only daring to glance up when she turned away. Finally she raised one slim arm and her alabaster hand pointed.

  “That one.” The voice was Camilla’s, yet not; harsher, more powerful, edged like a knife.

  The chanting stopped.

  The cannibals looked up to where she pointed, and as one they lunged to obey. Hands strong with relief overpowered the chosen one, a tall warrior with a broad scar on his chest. His thick arms strained against the unwelcome clutches of his brothers and sisters, but he could not break free. As they hauled him toward Camilla, horror sapped his strength and his struggles diminished. They forced him to his knees before her, wrenched his head back so that his wide eyes stared up into her pale, horrible, beautiful visage.

  Camilla smiled and reached out to caress his face in a parody of affection.

  The man shuddered at the touch, and a hopeless moan escaped his lips. Tipos felt himself shaking in sympathy at the man’s plight; this was no way to die. He might have met the warrior in battle and fought him to the death, but this was not battle. This was slaughter, a proud boar dragged to the butcher.

  Camilla bent forward, cocking her head like a lover bending for a kiss. The flickering torchlight cast eerie shadows across her pale features. As her lips neared the victim’s exposed throat, Tipos saw her obsidian eyes gleam, and her red lips curl back and stretch impossibly wide to reveal a dreadful maw. Rows of black teeth glinted in the firelight before they were sheathed in the man’s flesh. The warrior spasmed, and his captors released him and backed away. He flailed and screamed out a gout of frothy blood, but his struggles were futile. Camilla clutched him tight and pulled him up as she straightened, her mouth locked onto his throat, her hands grasping his neck like a vice.