Patience, it thought, seething with rage at the vile trick the humans had played on it. It would bide its time and plan its revenge. Twice they have poisoned me, and they will pay now as they did before…with blood.
≈
“Hard to starboard!” Pendergast bellowed, cursing his stupidity. Flaming creatures and sudden winds, and they were searching for a fire-enchanted floating island…he should have guessed. “Man the braces! Set the jibs and fore-staysail and tend your sheets! Helmsman, take her upwind as close as she’ll bear!” Canvas shot up the forestays and the great wheel turned. Iron Drake answered, plowing to windward, spray flying from her prow. As they turned, Akrotia loomed in its enormity, and Pendergast struggled to catch his breath.
The sheer size of the thing staggered him; it filled half of the southern horizon. Spires, arches and towers glittered with motes of fire that grew brighter by the moment. Admiral Joslan had provided him with the seamage’s account of the city, but he had presumed the proportions to be exaggeration or sheer fabrication.
“What is it even doing here?” he muttered. “It should be hundreds of miles south, deep in the heart of the Sea of Lost Ships.”
The wind suddenly shifted, backfilling the sails and killing the ship’s forward momentum. Cries rang out from above as topmen were flogged by the luffing canvas, and the helmsman swore as he tried to compensate by adjusting his heading.
“What in the Nine Hells is going on?” Pendergast cursed. With a start, he recalled another detail from the seamage’s tale: the pyromage who inhabited Akrotia could control the wind. Running under sail, he realized, was futile. They were being drawn in like a moth to a flame.
“Strike all sails!” he bellowed, drawing his cutlass and hacking through the mizzen halyard himself. “Cut them down if you have to, but get that canvas down right now! All spare hands to the sweeps, Mister Jundis, and I mean everyone! I want the bloody cook with an oar in his hands!”
“Aye, sir!” Jundis shouted a stream of orders and vanished below with dozens of men, while the sailors on watch furled sails and slacked halyards, bundling the canvas on deck.
“Helmsman, steer straight away from that bloody thing. I don’t care if we’re heading straight into the wind.” He had no doubt that the wind would be against them, but with every man at an oar, they might have a chance. He glanced aloft as the last sail was furled, and realized that there was still too much windage from the rigging. “Topmen, strike all the sails to the deck, and get the damned yards down, too!” He looked back over the taffrail at the glittering mountain of light, and prayed to every god he knew that it was only his imagination that it was closer.
The sweeps bit into the sea with a vengeance, but the countering wind howled through the rigging, hindering their progress. Pendergast glanced back every couple of minutes, and his heart sank. Akrotia was indeed closer, so close that he could see the white foam of the sea churning against its shore. It was making headway toward them, even as they struggled to edge away.
“Damn you!” Pendergast snarled as he gripped the taffrail and glared. It was using the wind both to propel itself forward and to hinder his escape. The city was gaining on them. He didn’t know exactly what would happen when it caught up, but he knew he could not outrun this monstrosity in these winds.
He looked down at the boats trailing along in his wake, and realized that something lighter and lower might just be able to escape this trap.
“Bosun! Send for Mister Jundis double quick, and pull the boats up to the transom. Rig a boarding ladder and a cargo hoist from the mizzen boom.” He cast his eyes about before fixing them on a hapless cabin boy cowering by the quarterdeck rail. “You there, lad. Off to my cabin and come back here with the big wooden box under the chart table. Run, lad!” The boy dashed off, and Pendergast looked back over the taffrail, wondering if he had time to execute his plan.
“Sir!”
Jundis’ breathless shout brought Pendergast around, and he saw the terror in the young officer’s face. “Ah, Mister Jundis. Very good.” The captain tried to put a note of confidence and calm in his voice, for his lieutenant’s sake. “I have a mission for you, and I’m relying on you to carry it out without question. Do you understand?”
“Of course, sir!” Jundis snapped a salute, stifling his panic with military decorum.
“Excellent! I need you to take all of the officers and the best rowers we’ve got, and man the boats.” The cabin boy ran up just then bearing his box of navigational charts and instruments. “You’re to take this box—the ship’s log and relevant charts are within—and as much food and water as you can carry. Row, do not sail, perpendicular to our current course until you are well clear of the city and its winds, then get back to Plume Isle as quickly as you can by whatever means. You must notify the admiral of this menace, or our entire mission will be a failure. Tell him that Akrotia uses the winds, both to move and against any ships within a mile or so. Captain Donnely was deployed to Vulture Isle, so look for his masts as you pass. If you see them, rendezvous first with Cape Storm and make a report to Donnely.” Pendergast fixed the lieutenant with a stare. Jundis swallowed hard, and nodded in understanding; the ship would be lost, and it was up to him to complete their mission. “I need you to do this very quickly, Lieutenant. We haven’t much time.”
As if to emphasize their peril, a horrendous screech split the night, as if a thousand swords were shearing through stone. Both officers cringed and looked aft. A huge circular aperture, glowing with inner fire, shuddered open like an immense mouth. Pendergast knew in his gut that it would swallow them whole.
He grasped Jundis’ arm. “Now, Lieutenant!” He pressed his pocket watch into the man’s hand, and slapped him on the shoulder.
Jundis stared at the watch for a second, then his jaw clenched. “Aye, aye, sir!”
Iron Drake had four longboats, all of which could hoist masts and sail, or be rowed. In short order, each was crowded with the stoutest sailors Jundis could muster, and enough food and water to last them a week. The lieutenant gave the order, and the boats shoved away. With a dozen men each hauling hard on the oars, the small boats fairly flew away. The sight gave Pendergast the courage to give his next order.
“Avast rowing! Man all catapults and ballistae for a port broadside! Helmsman, hard to port.”
The zeal with which his men answered his orders made Captain Pendergast’s heart soar. The men knew full well their fate—none could miss the fiery mountain bearing down on them, the gaping maw of the harbor arch poised to swallow the ship—and still, they manned their stations with fortitude. The ship turned beam to the wind as the men strained to load their weapons in the howling gale.
“As she bears…” the captain called. The arch loomed near, and he could see the edges of the huge bronze plates that had receded into it. The city glowed with inner fire now, and heat washed over them. He didn’t know if his attack would harm this dreadnaught, but at this point an act of utter defiance seemed, if nothing else, poignant. He grinned maniacally as he considered this unexpected turn in his flagging career, and gave the order.
“FIRE!”
The deadly missiles flew. Great balls of hardest granite and shafts of iron-tipped hardwood smashed against Akrotia, carving out splinters of stone. One catapult missile even soared high enough to smash against the arch, and stone chips rained down. The men cheered as Pendergast gave the order to point the ship directly at the city and reload their weapons. They were His Majesty’s navy, the emperor’s strong right arm, and they would not go down without a fight, futile though it might be.
The ship charged straight toward the archway, the wind howling behind her. Captain Pendergast blinked his eyes against the searing heat, and raised his sword.
“FIRE!”
Even as the order tore from his throat, Pendergast watched the deck of the Iron Drake smolder beneath
his feet. A moment later, the death cries of one hundred and twenty men were swallowed in an eruption of incandescent flame.
≈
The fire was satisfying, Edan thought, but far too small and far too brief. He had used more power chasing the ship than he reaped from the blaze, but the fury burned bright in his mind, and it—she—would not allow him to ignore the prize. It had been an imperial warship, after all. Somehow, watching it burst into flames had been as great a rush as the fire itself.
But the screams…
A portion of Edan’s mind was appalled by what he had done, but the overpowering rage smothered his sympathy. They were Imperial Navy, and they deserved what they got. They would have destroyed him if they could, and the only way he could fight back was with wind and fire. They had stood between him and vengeance, between him and the seamage, and he would destroy them all if he had to.
He could see four small boats pulling away from him in the darkness, escapees from the ship. They, too, were imperials, but he forced down the rage and let them go. They were too small to yield much power by burning them, and too few to be a threat. Besides, they would all burn, in time…
≈
“Can we not put the sail up, Mister Jundis?” the young ensign asked, putting all the whiny petulance of his youth into the plea.
“Not until we’re well away, Mister Twyne,” the lieutenant snapped. “Tend to your oar and keep your mouth shut. Your captain just gave his life to spare your pimply arse, so show some respect and row the skin off your palms without one more whimper.”
“Yes, sir,” the youth mumbled.
They’d been pulling hard for four hours, and Jundis estimated they were now about four miles from Akrotia. Its glow had faded completely now. Shortly after he had seen Iron Drake explode in flames—may the Gods of Light claim the souls of Captain Pendergast and the rest of the doomed crew—the fires had slowly banked until the city was the color of a dying ember.
The contents of the captain’s box were invaluable. Using the knot log and the golden pocket watch, then doing some easy calculations, Jundis determined that Akrotia was making a steady three knots toward the north. They were steadily increasing their lead, now that the unnatural wind had abated. The trade winds should pick up soon, though he wouldn’t trust them until he had put several more miles between themselves and the monstrosity. Until then, he arranged staggered watches on the oars with everyone pulling their share.
Akrotia still loomed large to the south when the sky began to lighten with the gray of pre-dawn. Its lofty spires had no sooner glinted with the first light of the sun when the young ensign resumed his complaints. Jundis had just about had enough.
“Have a care, Mister Twyne. We have three hundred sea miles to reach Vulture Isle, and this boat will move much faster if relieved of the weight of even one skinny ensign!”
“Or we could just eat ‘im,” one of the sailors muttered.
Chuckles broke out around the longboat, and the ensign’s face flushed. It served him right; a little humility would do the selfish boy good. Jundis hauled on his oar and directed his thoughts to mental calculations of their speed, when they might arrive, and how far ahead of Akrotia they would be when they got there. Anything to keep him from hearing in his mind the screams of his shipmates as Iron Drake burst into flames.
Chapter 16
Lies and Revelations
“Captain…Farin, is it?” Admiral Joslan squinted at the ship’s papers, then eyed the slovenly young man who stood before him, clenching his hands and shifting his weight in obvious discomfort.
“That’s right, Milord Admiral, sir.” The man sketched a sailor’s salute and bit his lip. “Captain Seoril died some weeks ago now, and I—”
“Yes, it’s all here in your log. This is your hand?” Joslan peered at the poor penmanship as Farin bobbed his head. “You state here that your captain died four weeks ago, but you apparently have been keeping the books for…” He flipped through a few pages. The same scribbled writing preceded the captain’s supposed demise. “…about six weeks now.”
“Yes, sir,” Farin said, still bobbing his head. “The captain, well, he was sick for a while, see, an’ he asked me ta—”
“I understand.” Joslan was annoyed. This Farin chap had the look of an outlaw, as did the rest of his crew. He glanced over the exhaustive inventory of the ship’s cargo compiled by the lieutenant’s men. The mixed load of valuables looked like no commercial cargo he’d ever seen, though to be honest, he had never bothered himself with merchant affairs beyond pressing into service the occasional sailor when the navy was short of seamen. Yet, to be found where Count Norris claimed to have encountered pirates not three weeks ago… He clenched his teeth. The situation stank like bilge water, but there was no clear evidence of any wrongdoing.
“Maintaining such a large crew must cut into your profit margin, Captain Farin,” he said as he scanned the crew list. “Why so many men?”
“The Sand Coast is a dangerous stretch o’ water, Milord Admiral. We had to fight off more’n one attack by pirates. One was even a warship, one o’ them low galleys they have down there. We was lucky to escape alive.”
“Yet you’ll profit rather well by the venture.” He returned to the manifest. “Mostly copper and spice, but a rather mixed lot of this and that. Tell me, for I’m a military man and unversed in the ways of commerce; why not trade for a single commodity?”
“A mixed load’s better for us, bein’ as we don’t have a set buyer, Milord Admiral, sir.” Farin shrugged. “Captain Seoril set it up that way, and I figured: why change? He always said that we was far enough and long enough out of the market that we don’t rightly know what’ll sell best, so a mixed load is less risk. That silver plate we bought up, fer instance. Why, that’s bound to sell, but at what margin? If it’s high, a whole boat load of it would be worth a fortune. But if it’s low when we make the market, well, it might not even pay for the sailors’ wages an’ vittles. So we got a bit of everything, and we’ll sell it straight to the bazaar shops in Tsing…after payin’ the import tax and city tithe, o’ course. Cuttin’ the buyer out of the middle saves us a tidy bit.”
“I see,” Joslan said, though he didn’t, and also didn’t particularly care. “And why were you in that mangrove channel in Middle Cay?”
“Why, we had a long hard run up from the Sand Coast, milord, and King Gull ain’t as spry as she used to be. We was restin’ up and takin’ stock, doin’ some repairs and such.”
“I can certainly understand that, but why that particular spot? It’s been reported as a pirate’s lair.”
Farin stifled a snort of laughter. “Oh, aye, that’s what yer lieutenant said, but there ain’t no truth to it, milord. There ain’t been pirates in the Shattered Isles for near two years, not with the seamage here.” He looked around at the huge chamber, and grinned. “I always wanted to see inside her palace, I did. Thank’e fer that.”
“But why go to the trouble of hauling that galleon up a narrow channel, Captain?” Joslan pressed irritably. He knew the man was dodging, but he couldn’t trip him up. “Why not anchor out in the lagoon?”
“Oh, that! Well, it’s the merfolk, sir.” Farin’s eyes widened. “Captain Seoril marked that spot as the only place in the Shattered Isles that was safe from them bloodthirsty fish folk. They don’t like the brackish water up them channels, it seems.”
“I see,” Joslan said with another scowl. The man seemed to have all the answers, well-rehearsed though they might be. But everything was in order, and the admiral could find no reason to hold him. “Very well, Captain Farin, you are free to go.”
“Oh, thank you, Milord Admiral, sir!” the man gushed, bowing and grinning.
“But remember, Captain. The Shattered Isles are under imperial control now. Be assured that this area is no longer lawless, and we will be
maintaining a strong presence.” He handed over the ship’s papers and made a shooing motion.
“Oh, I’ll remember that, and don’t you worry, sir. We’re sailin’ straight for Tsing to offload this haul, and then north to cooler breezes and friendlier folk. Thank’e again, milord.”
The fawning man left and Joslan scowled, grabbed his cup and gulped down the blackbrew. He didn’t know why, but he had the feeling he had just made a big mistake.
≈
“Sails sighted, sir. South by southwest, about five miles,” the officer of the watch said as Donnely stepped onto the quarterdeck. “I was just sending a boy to fetch—”
“Thank you, Mister Tanner. I heard the lookout’s hail. Your glass, if you please.” Donnely was curious. Pendergast shouldn’t return for weeks if Captain Brelak’s coordinates had been correct, and there was no reason for any other ship to be approaching from that direction. He couldn’t help but think that this boded ill.
“The lookout reports four small boats, visible only from the maintop right now.” He handed over the glass.
“Boats?” Donnely’s curiosity doubled. “Native fishermen, perhaps?”
“No, sir,” Tanner said. “The natives paddle their outrigger canoes, they don’t sail them.”
The captain’s curiosity blossomed into dread, though he kept his face blank. What kind of trouble had Pendergast gotten himself into out in the middle of nowhere? “No sign of Iron Drake?”
“No, sir.”
Scimitar War Page 20
