by Mel Odom
“Who goes there?” the sailor with the lantern asked.
The other two sailors filled their hands with swords and took up defensive positions.
“Orloff,” Taramis said, walking toward the men without hesitation.
Darrick split off from the sage, surveying the rigging and deciding in the space of a drawn breath which canvases to use and how best to free them. Only four other men among the sage’s warriors had any real experience aboard masted ships, and they all had considerably less than he did.
“I don’t know no Orloff,” the sailor with the lantern said. “Mayhap ye got the wrong ship there, mate.”
“I’ve got the right ship,” Taramis assured the man. He closed on them, walking with a confident gait. “Captain Rihard asked me to drop by with this package.” He held up a leather-covered bottle. “Said it would be something to warm you up against the night’s chill.”
“I don’t know no Cap’n Rihard,” the sailor said. “Ye got the wrong ship. Ye’d best be shovin’ off.”
But by that time, Taramis was among them. He sketched an eldritch symbol in the air. The symbol flared to emerald-green life and flickered out of existence.
Before the last of the color died away, a shimmering wall of force exploded toward the three sailors and knocked them all over the stern railing, scattering them like leaves before a fierce gust. The sailor carrying the lantern hung on to it, arcing out over the river and falling like a comet from the heavens till he disappeared into the water with a loud splash.
At the same time, signaled by the spell Taramis had used, Rhambal set fire to the oil-soaked exterior of one of the larger warehouses on the south side of the river to create a diversion. Flames blossomed up the side of the warehouse, alerting dozens of people living in the surrounding neighborhood. In seconds, even as the three sailors were knocked from Blue Zephyr’s stern, the hue and cry about the fire filled the streets and the banks on both sides of the river.
When the sailors surfaced, they didn’t gain much support for their troubles. Palat joined Taramis in the stern, an arrow to bowstring and the fletchings pulled back to his ear. The sailors got the message and swam for the riverbank.
“Get those sails down,” Darrick ordered. Now that they were into the action, with little chance of turning back, his blood sang in his veins. Apart of him came back alive after a year of trying to deaden it. He remembered times past when he and Mat had scrambled aboard a ship to prepare for battle or respond to a surprise attack.
The four warriors with sailing experience split up. One went to the stern to take the wheel, and the others scrambled up the rigging.
Darrick climbed the rigging like a monkey, all the moves coming back to him even though it had been months since he’d last climbed in a sailing ship. Hauklin’s mystic sword banged against his back as he climbed. The cutlass had been short enough that he’d kept it sheathed at his side, but the long sword felt more natural slung across his shoulder.
As he climbed the rigging and reached the furled sails, he slashed through the neatly tied ropes with his belt knife. His sailor’s soul resented the loss of the rope, always a prized commodity of a ship at sea, but he knew they’d have no further use of it. Thinking like that made him remember what Taramis had in store for the cargo vessel, and that made Darrick even sadder. The small ship wasn’t much, but she was seaworthy and had a purpose.
At the top of the mast, all the sails cut loose below him, Darrick gazed down at the deck. The remaining eleven warriors—Rhambal would join them in a moment—busied themselves with bringing small casks of whale oil up from the hold. Blue Zephyr had shipped with small kegs of oil as well as the large kegs, otherwise they’d have needed a block-and-tackle to get them on deck.
Darrick slipped down through the rigging, dropping hand-over-hand to the deck. “Lash those sails in place. Hurry.” He scanned the river anchorage.
The three sailors Taramis had knocked over the cargo ship’s side had reached the riverbank, calling out to other sailors and city guards. For the most part they were ignored. The fire at the warehouse was more important because if it spread, the city might be in danger.
Watching the flames blaze, stretching long tongues into the sky above the warehouse, while he tied the sails fast, Darrick knew he couldn’t have given the order to fire the building as Taramis had. The people who owned the warehouse had done nothing wrong, nor had the people who stored their goods there.
It had been a necessary evil, the sage had told them all. None of the warriors had exhibited any problems with the plan.
“Darrick,” Taramis called from the ship’s stern. He’d taken off his outer coat, revealing the orange Vizjerei robes with the silver mystic symbols.
“Aye,” Darrick called back.
“Are the sails ready?”
“Aye,” Darrick replied, finishing the last lashing and glancing around at the other warriors working on the canvas. They had been slower at it than he had, but it was all done. “You’re clear.” He glanced at the other men again. “Stand ready, boys. This is going to be a quick bit of work if we can pull it off.”
Taramis spoke, and the words he used sounded like growls. No human throat was meant to use the phrases, and Darrick was certain that the sage’s spell was from some of the earliest magic that had been brought into the world by the demons among the Vizjerei. Some mages and sorcerers believed that spellcraft was purer when used in the old language it had first been taught in.
A wavering reflection of the warehouse fire spread over the choppy surface of the river. Other glowing dots spread along the banks reflected on the river, too. More were in a straight line under the second bridge that lay between the cargo ship and the church. Hoarse shouts drifted, trapped and held close to the water as sound always was. A bucket brigade had started near the warehouse.
Despite his readiness, Darrick was almost knocked from his feet as Taramis’s spell summoned a wild wind from the west. The canvas popped and crackled overhead as the sails filled. Her sails filled with the magically summoned wind, and the ship started forward, cutting through the river against the current.
TWENTY-TWO
Propelled by the sudden onslaught of wind, Blue Zephyr nosed down into the river. The sudden action caught three of the warriors unprepared, and they fell onto the deck. The oil kegs overturned and rolled, creating a brief hazard till the ship’s keel came up. One of the warriors almost rolled through the open space in the railing where the boarding ramp had fallen away, but he managed to stop himself just short of it. “Hold what you’ve got!” Darrick cried out over the roaring wind to the other warriors manning the sails. He strained to hang on to the ropes, keeping the sail full into the wind. Little work was necessary on the part of the ship-trained men, though. Taramis’s wind caught the cargo vessel squarely and sped her across the river.
Other nearby ships rocked at anchor, and small sailcraft that had been used to ferry goods across the river were blown down, their sails lying in the water.
“Wheel!” Darrick yelled, watching as Blue Zephyr closed with frightening quickness on a low barge.
“Aye,” Farranan called back.
“Hard to starboard, damn it, or we’re going to end up amidships,” Darrick ordered.
“Hard to starboard,” Farranan replied.
Immediately, the cargo ship came about. The port-side hull rubbed along the low-slung barge, coming up out of the river slightly and cracking timbers. Darrick hoped most of the cracking timbers belonged to the barge.
Hanging on to the ropes tied to the sail, he watched as the corner of the barge went under the cargo ship, the prow of the boat and the other corner coming clear of the water. Boxes and crates and longshoremen spilled into the water. Two lanterns dropped into the river as well, both of them extinguishing as soon as the water touched the flames.
Then the cargo ship was past the barge, running free through the channel in the middle of the river. The others ships were packed so close together that there
wasn’t much space to navigate between them. Darrick saw the surprised faces of several sailors peering over taller ships down at the small cargo vessel.
“Break that oil open,” Taramis ordered.
The warriors broke the oil kegs open with hand axes, spilling the dark liquid across the prow deck. The whale oil ran thick and slow, like blood from a man almost bled out.
When the cargo ship passed under the bridge that marked the boundary of the last harbor area, Darrick glanced up in time to see Rhambal throw himself over the side of the bridge. The warrior made a desperate grab for the rigging as it passed, caught hold of it and slammed back into the web of rope, then tossed himself into the nearest sail and slid down to the deck. He landed hard and on his back.
“Are you all right?” Darrick asked, offering a hand as the wind roared around them and the ship’s deck pitched.
“Nothing wounded but my pride,” Rhambal said, taking Darrick’s hand. The warrior clambered to his feet and winced. “And maybe my arse.” He looked back at the blazing warehouse. “Now, that’ll be enough of a diversion.”
“It’s already lasted long enough,” Darrick replied, gazing at the thick, syrupy liquid that covered the prow.
“Provided we get over into the pilings that Taramis was talking about,” Rhambal said.
“We’ll get there,” Darrick said. He raised his voice. “Hard to port.”
“Hard to port!” Farranan shouted from the stern.
Darrick felt Blue Zephyr lunge in response, cutting back toward the northern riverbank where the imposing monolith of the Church of the Prophet of the Light stood. The parapet stood out over the river less than three hundred yards away, and the distance was closing fast. Two pillars of square-cut blocks held the parapet twenty feet up from the river surface, allowing for the rising current during the flood season.
On both sides of the river, torches and lanterns trailed Blue Zephyr’s passage, marking the passage of the city guards. Church guards filled the parapet as the cargo ship sailed within a hundred yards of the overhang. Several of them had crossbows, and the air filled with quarrels.
“Take cover!” Palat squalled, ducking down and behind the cargo hold amidships. Quarrels slapped into the deck around him.
Darrick heard the missiles whistle by his head within inches of striking him. He pulled himself behind the center mast, trusting the magical winds that Taramis had stirred up to drive Blue Zephyr into the pilings. Overhead, more quarrels ripped through the canvas sails.
“Hold the wheel!” Darrick commanded, gazing back at the stern.
Farranan had ducked down, trying desperately to take cover. The weak grip he kept on the wheel allowed the ship to glide back toward the center of the river channel.
Throwing himself from the mast, Darrick charged toward the ship’s stern. His back and shoulders tightened up as he ran across the heaving deck, expecting to feel the unforgiving bite of a steel arrowhead at any moment. Grabbing the stairwell railing, he hurled himself up the short flight of steps, almost stumbling over Farranan in his haste.
Taramis stood at the railing. “Get back from the prow!” he yelled.
Darrick grabbed the wheel and pulled hard to port, bringing the cargo ship back on course. The winds continued unabated, whipping the rigging and tearing the canvas where the quarrels had ripped through. The wheel jerked in Darrick’s hands as the rudder fought the river current and the mystical winds.
After inscribing a glowing seven-pointed symbol in the air, Taramis spoke a single word. Activated by the magic, the symbol spun the length of the deck and ignited the whale oil spilled over the prow. The dark liquid went up in a liquid whoosh! of twisting yellow and lavender flames.
A wall of heat washed back over Darrick, causing him to squint against it. Panic filled him for a moment when he realized he could no longer see the parapet because of the whirling mass of flames and flying embers. Leaping into the rigging and catching the first sail, the fire climbed the forward mast like a lumbering bear cub, testing each new resting place, then diving upward again.
He looked up, thinking for one insane moment that he could chart by the stars.
Instead, he spotted the tall bell tower atop the tallest part of the Church of the Prophet of the Light. He aimed the ship by the bell tower, figuring out where it was in relation to the parapet.
“Hold what you have,” Taramis said.
Darrick nodded grimly.
Quarrels continued to fall onto the ship, sinking deep into the wood. Another caromed from the ship’s wheel in Darrick’s hands and bit into his left side. For a moment he thought his ribs had caught fire, then he glanced down and saw the quarrel lodged there.
Sickness twisted Darrick’s stomach as he thought the shaft had penetrated his stomach or chest. Then he noticed that it had taken him low, skimming across his ribs with bruising force but not biting into muscle or an organ. The quarrel would probably have gone on through if it hadn’t been for his traveling cloak.
Steeling himself, Darrick reached down and pulled the quarrel through his own flesh and tossed it over the side. His fingers gleamed crimson with his own blood.
“Look out!” Palat yelled.
For one frozen moment, Darrick saw the thick pilings supporting the parapet before him. We’re too high, he thought, realizing the cargo ship came up higher on the structure than they’d guessed. The impact is going to turn us away.
But he had forgotten about the sheer, unstoppable tonnage the wild winds drove before them. As cargo ships went, not many were loaded more compactly or more heavily than oil freighters. Blue Zephyr was loaded to the top with driving weight and powered by a whirling storm.
The ship slammed into the pilings, driving from their moorings against the riverbed, collapsing the parapet in a sudden stream of rubble, driving a wall of water up and into the swirling winds so that a sudden monsoon rained down. Blue Zephyr’s starboard side took a beating as rock fell from above. Shudders ran the length of the ship, feeling like monstrous blows from a blacksmith’s hammer. Blue Zephyr was the anvil, and just as unrelenting and uncompromising. Rock and rubble bounced from the deck, which was canted hard to starboard as it scraped along the exposed riverbank.
The church’s guards fell amid the rubble as well. Darrick watched them fall, some of them dropping into the foaming river current on the starboard side of the ship and others bouncing across the deck, caught up in an avalanche of stone and mortar. Two of the guards fell into the flaming canvas on the forward mast. They screamed and dove from the rigging, candle flames burning brightly till they plunged into the river.
Releasing the wheel, knowing he could no longer attempt to hold it in place without risking dire injury, Darrick stepped back and seized the railing. He held on as the ship battled the wind and the riverbank. Pulling himself along the railing, he reached up for a ratline running to stern, caught it, and forced his way to the port side.
Blue Zephyr ground to a halt on rock.
Darrick heard the rock scraping along the ship’s hull, giant’s teeth worrying at a bone. He winced as he realized the amount of damage they’d done to the vessel and the countless hours of work it would take to get her seaworthy again. He gazed over the deck, wondering if, after all they’d risked, they’d accomplished what they set out to do.
Shadows clung to the fallen debris and the dark mud of the riverbank. Darrick searched the riverbed but didn’t see the threatened sewer system Taramis’s research had turned up. Still, despite the grimness of their situation, no real fear touched Darrick. All he felt was an anxiety and a hope that the desperate madness of guilt of the last year would soon be over. Kabraxis’s church guards wouldn’t let them live after the assault.
Taramis joined Darrick at the railing. The sage spoke a word and pointed to the torch he held. Flames instantly wreathed the torch, and light glared down over the ship’s side.
“That torch is going to light us up for the crossbowmen,” Farranan said as he stood at the railing.
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“We can’t stay here,” Rhambal said.
Blue Zephyr continued to rub and buck against the exposed limestone of the riverbed.
“The ship’s not going to be here for long, either,” Darrick said. For the first time he noticed the quiet that was left after the storm winds had died away. “The current’s going to dislodge us, sweep us away.”
Thrusting the torch out, Taramis scanned the riverbank. More rock dropped from the broken parapet.
“They’ve got a boat in the water,” Palat warned.
Looking over the stern railing, Darrick saw a guard ship streaking for them. Lanterns lighted Lord Darkulan’s flag in the stern and on the prow, marking the vessel for all to see.
“The torch is too weak,” Taramis said. “But it’s got to be down there.” He waved the torch, reaching down as far as he could, but it was futile. The light simply wouldn’t reach the riverbank properly.
Draw the sword, Mat Hu-Ring said into Darrick’s mind.
“Mat?” Darrick whispered. The guilt returned full blast, disrupting the peace he thought he’d have when it became apparent there would be no escape. Accepting his own death was far easier than accepting Mat’s.
Draw the sword, Mat repeated, sounding far away.
Turning, knowing he wasn’t going to find his friend standing somewhere behind him the way it sounded, Darrick looked at the warriors assembling in the stern, looking toward Taramis to call their next move.
The sword, ye damned fool! Mat said. Draw the bloody great sword. It’ll help ye an’ them with ye.
Darrick reached over his right shoulder, feeling the pain along his left side where the quarrel had gone through, and gripped the hilt of Hauklin’s sword. A tingle ran through his hand, and the sword seemed to spring into his grip. He held the weapon before him, a huge gray bar of sharpened steel bearing battle scars.
Taramis and the other warriors holding lanterns and torches they’d gotten from the whale-oil freighter tried to penetrate the shadows covering the riverbank.
