Fires of Scorpio [Dray Prescot #29]

by Alan Burt Akers

  Asnar said: “There is a sail,” and then he roared down to the ship: “Deck below! Ship ahoy!"

  No time had elapsed in the real world since the bird appeared up to the point he vanished. Now life jumped into motion again. Above the horizon rim showed the speck of a sail, glinting in the suns light. I steadied the telescope. I looked.

  So...

  So I understood what the Gdoinye had been saying, and why he had visited me at that particular moment. Leem Lovers, he had said, there are more than the one kind ... Oh, yes.

  I recognized the shape of the sail approaching us.

  Tall, narrow, more planing with the wind than catching it as an ordinary sail does, that tall shaft of canvas on a polacre mast indicated clearly—and terribly—just what that ship was.

  Asnar the Grolt bellowed down, “Can't make her out yet."

  Without wasting any more words, I shinnied down the backstay and jumped onto the deck. I went across to Pompino and Murkizon. They saw my face, and a muscle twitched beside Pompino's eye. Murkizon almost—not quite—took a step back.

  “What, Jak? What is it?"

  I didn't shilly-shally.

  “Shanks."

  The word whistled around the ship like wildfire.

  Shanks!

  Fish-heads; rapacious, murderous, merciless sea rovers from over the curve of the world. They were called, among many insulting names, Leem Lovers. They were not of Paz. They were diffs, alien, enemy, who would slay us and glee in the slaying.

  “We cannot fight them,” said Captain Murkizon.

  The silence that ensued, punctured by the slosh of the sea and the dying sough of the breeze, the slap and bang of loose tackle, reminded us all of the importance of this moment. No one was going to suggest that Captain Murkizon was frightened of the Shanks. We were all aware of the ferociously formidable reputation of the Fish-heads. It took twice the normal amount of killing to slay one of them.

  Pompino cocked an eye at me. Quietly, I said to him, “You saw the Gdoinye?"

  “Aye. We have been summoned."

  “Yes."

  “Well,” demanded Murkizon. His face resembled a sunset of the great red sun Zim. He burned. “What do you say?"

  Naghan Pelamoin and Chandarlie the Gut looked at the captain, and away, and then at Pompino. Pompino did not hesitate.

  “We may not wish to fight the Fish-heads. It is true they raid our coasts and slay us and burn and kill. It would be feeble of us not to try to stop them."

  “Have you fought the Shanks before?” demanded Murkizon.

  The Rapa, Rondas the Bold, shouldered forward.

  “I have. They may be killed like any other man."

  The two girl varterists said, more or less together, “We have shot them before."

  Murkizon shook his head. “You said, Rondas, that you had not shipped as a marine mercenary before. So you fought the Shanks ashore. I tell you, they are a very different proposition afloat and in their damned magical ships."

  “Their ships are not magical,” I said, very sharply. “They are well found, with good lines and a remarkable sail plan. But they are only ships. They may be rammed and sunk."

  “Have you tried?” boomed Murkizon. “I have. They sail fleeter than the wind itself."

  “Well,” declared Pompino, brushing up his whiskers. “You may not wish to fight them as I said. But they are sailing down upon us with the breeze. Look!” He pointed. Sure enough, the Shank was foaming along, the bone between her teeth spouting only a little, her tall narrow sails all slanted so that the breeze sucked her along. “She seems to fight us!"

  “And she'll be upon us very soon,” said Pelamoin.

  The hesitation in Murkizon was undermining the resolution of the crew. They respected the barrel-like captain as a fighting man who knew his business. If he hesitated, the dangers must be immense.

  The moment hung with dire consequences. These men had to face the hard facts of life, and that life spent on the marvelous and terrible world of Kregen. The Shank bore on, creaming down on us, and apparently bringing the wind with her. Her superstructure was of the square, boxlike construction favored by the Fish-heads; her underwater lines would be sweet and clean and of a very high order of marine expertise.

  “They will be on us!” I bellowed. “Beat to quarters! Captain Murkizon, I respect your decision. You may go below and keep out of it if you—"

  He didn't let me finish. I thought he would explode.

  “Go below!” he fairly foamed. “Not hit ‘em and knock ‘em down and jump on ‘em! I shall remember that! I only said we should not fight them if we did not have to!"

  “Well spoken,” said the Rapa. “By Rhapaporgolam the Reiver of Souls! Now I shall find out how different fighting them on water is!"

  “Aye!” raved on Murkizon, incensed. “And by the Nauseating Nostril of the Divine Lady of Belschutz! My axe will drink their green slimy blood before they send me down to the Ice Floes of Sicce!"

  At the moment I felt any mention of Makki Grodno would be superfluous. But I stored away Murkizon's colorful remarks about his Divine Lady of Belschutz.

  “Then let each of us offer up a prayer to the gods,” said Pompino. “Pandrite and Opaz shine on us this day."

  “Aye!” And then they started to yell: “Jikai! Jikai!"

  So, that settled it. We were in for a fight, whether we wanted it or not.

  The Shank drew on apace. Now we could see the dots of scaled helmets, glimpse the wink of steel. They had various kinds of artillery. Our varters were prepared, the windlasses cranked, the strings drawn back, rocks and darts positioned in the troughs. I saw to the bow I'd borrowed from Pompino, and made sure the quiver of arrows was full.

  The breeze fanned our cheeks. That breeze fluttered, died, blew strongly again, vacillated, shifted around the compass—died, and did not blow again.

  The Shank sailed on and then, gently, her sails not quivering as ordinary canvas would, she slowed. Presently, we were two ships, idle upon a painted ocean.

  Pompino glowed.

  “Now we have the cramphs!"

  At once Murkizon's attitude changed. He glared.

  “Aye,” he said. “Aye, Horter Pompino. We have oars. But, look, the damned Shanks are putting out sweeps."

  Sure enough, five long sweeps a side slid out from the Shank Vessel, struck the water, began to pull in a long slow rhythm. Gradually, she began to move through the water toward us. Her progress was painfully slow. She would take some time to reach us at that speed.

  “Any man with sense would pull away from her,” said Murkizon. He cocked an eye at me.

  The Rapa, Rondas the Bold, and the Chulik, Nath Kemchug, stood talking one to the other. Not races of diffs who ordinarily got on, Chuliks and Rapas. But it was clear they both shared the same opinion here. The archer, Larghos the Flatch, joined them. The girls remained at their varter positions on the foredeck. Chandarlie the Gut prowled the ship. I spoke to Pompino.

  “We will have to talk to the oarsmen, Pompino."

  “We will. I'll tell ‘em. That will be the end of that."

  He went below the gratings. Redfang pulled a mere twenty-two oars a side; but eight men pulled and pushed on each. We could turn up a fair rate of knots. The drummer we had appointed, a seaman with a shock of black hair and a face with a nose knocked out of shape, went below. Nath the Slide would keep the time going, hammering out the rhythm.

  Murkizon was drawn into the conversation on deck. He waved his arms about. His face shone. Then he stamped his foot, hard, and bellowed so that all could hear.

  “That is the best plan! I agree! But if you are all killed do not come whining to me that it is cold on the Ice Floes of Sicce!"

  Intrigued by this talk of a plan, I felt inclined to add fuel to this flame of enthusiasm. I shouted, in a high mocking voice.

  “Ice Floes of Sicce! And the Shanks? Why all of the demons and devils there wouldn't have the Fish-heads—not if you paid them!"

  Tha
t raised the kind of groaning laugh it deserved, and Pompino reappeared on deck. “Plan?” he called. “I heard. What plan?"

  They left Murkizon to spell it out.

  “The Shanks make slow progress. With all our oars pulled by willing hands we can run rings around ‘em. We use our superior speed and turning circle under oars, dart in, ram ‘em on the broadside and pull clear. Pull clear quick, mind! Instanter! So they don't get the chance to board. Then—” and here he spoke with evident relish. “Then we stand off and watch ‘em sink."

  “Aye!” went up the full-throated roar.

  Against that vociferous approval, I had to be the idiot to say, “And what about the treasure they carry?"

  That was shouted down in a tumult of yells. The gist was that the only treasure aboard was likely to be stinking fish.

  There was no arguing with them now, and with Pompino agreeing to the plan, that motion carried the day.

  The oarsmen who so recently had been slave agreed that for this business they'd pull their hearts out. They could make the ship move! They'd show what they could do as free men hauling at the hated oars...

  A terrible anger at those who had oppressed them became evident in this, as though the ex-slaves were happy to strike out at this new foe in lieu of the old. They were perfectly confident that they could carry out their part of the plan. On the instant of ramming they would be ready. Those who had been pulling would push, those who had been pushing would pull. They'd backwater with such skill and precision we'd be out of the hole our ram had made, the proembolion would help us to back free, and we'd be away and laughing before the first Shank recovered from his fright. So help ‘em all the gods and goddesses of the Sea!

  Our motive power thus secure, we set about preparing ourselves for the coming ordeal. For ordeal was what it would be. People stood to their posts. The varters were manned. The prijikers stood tensed, ready to repel any attempt at boarding that might, despite the plan, eventuate. The drummer gave his preliminary warning rat-tat.

  Pompino called.

  “Redfangs! Are we ready?"

  “Aye! Ready!"

  “Then—Hai, Jikai!"

  The drum roll smashed out, every oar rose as one, struck in a welter of suds.

  Like a stone flung from a catapult, Redfang shot across the sea, leaping for the sinister shape of our foe.

  * * *

  Chapter fourteen

  We drop in on the Shanks

  Smashed into a million splinters of light, the sea sprayed away from the thrusting ram of the swordship. The vessel heaved herself through the sea at every stabbing thrust of her oars. Straight as an arrow she hurled herself for the flank of the Leem Lover's craft.

  Somebody on the forecastle began to sing those outrageous verses from the more boisterous sections of the song “The Worm-eaten Swordship Gull-i-mo."

  Others took up the refrain, beginning low-voiced, building as Redfang surged onward into a full-throated chorus. A chanted paean of defiance, flung before us at the Shank, rolled across the sea.

  The breeze remained dead. The sweeps across that narrowing gap of water churned with a motion betraying the frantic efforts of the oarsmen to propel their craft out of the killing crunch of our ram. Spray flew back like fabled diamonds flung across sable velvet. We stood braced against the speed and we roared our defiance in a rollicking barroom song, chanting out the defects and the mishaps of that nauseous swordship Gull-i-mo.

  The flags fluttered. Roughly fashioned from scraps of colored cloth we'd found aboard, they flaunted Pompino's blue and yellow. The air tasted like wine. Everything swam into a focus brilliant and brittle. Every sound spurted with meaningful force. Onward we plunged.

  The Shank was turning.

  Murkizon shouted his helm orders. The men on the whipstaff braced themselves, and the head of Redfang swung with a barely perceptible motion to line with deadly accuracy on the enemy beam. Now we could see the heads of men over the bulwarks. We could see the suns glint from scales. In only short moments the arrows would rise, the varters loose.

  The two varterist sisters, Wilma the Shot and Alwim the Eye, bent to their ballistae, taking a cool sight, lining up. When the moment was right—and not before—they would loose. Larghos the Hatch lifted his bow, not yet fully drawn, waiting his moment. I followed his action, taking as my mark the head of a man near the afterdeck who looked as though he might be the helmsman.

  Many heads crowded above the enemy bulwarks. Spears showed, a few. Mostly they used long narrow tridents. I knew about those tridents.

  Pompino scrambled up to join us on the forecastle. He looked inflated, wrought up, brilliant of face.

  “By Horato the Potent! We're going to catch them slap bang in the middle."

  “Amidships,” said Asnar the Grolt, hefting his boarding pike. He wore three thraxters in his belt, and three daggers.

  Naghan Pelamoin, ready to return to his post as the Ship-Hikdar, spoke sharply.

  “Remember, we do not board! We ram, backwater, and leave the cramphs to sink."

  “Aye!"

  Asnar the Grolt shook his pike again; he made no comment further.

  Rondas the Bold and Nath Kemchug stood together, not speaking but clearly standing shoulder to shoulder. From this sign I took heart. When Rapa and Chulik stood side by side against a common foe, then perhaps all of Paz would come together in common union far quicker than I had judged. The breeze of our passage blew in our faces. The suns shot shards of fire across the sea. And the side of the Shank drew nearer across the water.

  A rock rose from the Shank. Turning over and over in the air it arched up to splash into the sea twenty paces short. A howl of derision sparked from our prijikers.

  The two girls remained calmly at their varters.

  Another missile flew to drop short.

  Again that derisive yell broke from our ranks.

  If one of those rocks hit our group, there would be yells aplenty.

  Wilma said, “I will take the forrard varter, sister."

  “Aye, sister,” said Alwim. “And I the aft."

  A couple of spare men apiece had been detailed to wind the windlasses for the girls. Wilma and Alwim were by way of being Varter Chujiks, a corrupt term and a slang way of saying they were gun captains in Earthly parlance. By this time I had formed a high opinion of their accuracy and expertise. If they could knock out the enemy artillery we stood a much better chance of carrying out the plan.

  The next rock sloshed down just overside to larboard. The spray went whipping aft.

  We roared on, with the ship leaping under the thrust of the oars. The Shank's waist ahead of us swarmed with men. Her sweeps lashed the water, clumsily trying to turn her. For a single instant only a flashing remembrance of the time we went roaring down to attack a Shank leaped into my mind. Then we had smashed into the Shank and after a tremendous fight had bested him. But then we had been fighting with hardened Vallian seamen from a Vallian galleon, and we had a strong contingent of Chulik marines. Now we had a swordship and a handful of fighting men.

  No, this time was going to be far different, if they got aboard us, from the time of Captain Lars and his splendid galleon Ovvend Barynth.

  The two girls let fly their varters and the rocks crunched in. Then the arrows began to crisscross. We shot all the way in. And we were shot at all the way in.

  Unlike the shanks in the ship Maskinonge we'd fought in the old Ovvend Barynth, these Fish-heads had two arms. We could see them busily drawing and shooting their reflex bows. Our archery replied. Arrows fleeted in. They were yelling over there as the ships closed. Rather, the noise was that thin devilish screeching any man, hearing, must shudder at. My shaft glanced off something in the way, and missed my aim. Philosophically, I drew and loosed again. One cannot always hit one's target with the first shaft. Not like Seg.

  Asnar the Grolt said: “Uhoongg!” or something that sounded like that. I gave him a quick glance. A long barbed arrow pierced his face, tearing away his chee
k and exposing his teeth and eyeball. Blood ran. He did not speak again; but fell down onto the deck. In those closing moments as we bore in to ram, all a fighting man could do was commend poor Asnar the Grolt to his particular gods, and turn more sternly to face the enemy.

  A rock appeared to me to be aimed straight at me.

  It lolloped on like a friendly puppy about to lick your outstretched hand, only this puppy would rip off that hand and pulp the body attached to it.

  The rock skimmed over our heads. In the din I did not hear it crash. The screams ripped out as though tearing men's lungs with them. The stink of fish grew as we closed with the Shanks, that odious fishy stink that makes any man of Paz wrinkle his nose in disgust.

  From our perch in the forecastle we could look down on the waist of the Shank. That space was crowded with men, with beast-men, man-beasts, halflings, all with scales and stinking fish heads and squabby fish tails. There was no drawing away as we foamed in to ram. Pompino saw that.

  “Remember!” he yelled, hoarsely, making himself heard in the uproar. “Keep them off. We do not board."

  “Aye, horter,” said Rondas the Bold in his vulture's voice. As a paktun his humor tended to the macabre kind. “We might not want to board; they will."

  “Then,” said the Chulik, Nath Kemchug, “we stop them.” Their sense of humor is atrophied, Chuliks; but they have voracious appetites for a fight. “By Likshu the Treacherous! I will take a double handful of them with me if I go down to the Ice Floes this day."

  “We just need to keep them from getting aboard in the few moments between ramming and drawing off!” shouted Pompino.

  My Khibil comrade had not, I judged, seen a very great deal of sea-borne action. If those devils of Shanks got their hooks into us, we'd have the self-same devil's job to break free.

  An arrow sprouted suddenly from Wilma's arm. She gave a scream of shocked surprise; then tried to carry on. She bent to her trigger as her crew finished winding. Pompino saw.

  “Wilma! Go off the castle—"

  “If someone will snap the arrow it can be drawn—"

  “Go down, Wilma. D'you want to look like a pincushion?"