“To the most beautiful ship in the Sea of Az!” proclaimed Kerish.
“And the swiftest, too, your Highness.” Engis gulped down his wine. “I remember Her Highness, the Princess of Seld, being gracious enough to say that she sped over the waves like a real bird in flight.”
“Have you had many such royal passengers?” asked Forollkin.
“Yes indeed, my Lord. The first was on the Zeloka's maiden voyage, the Princess of Chiraz, that is Queen now. I was third mate then and I remember her well. A handsome lady, if you'll forgive my saying it, and so eager to get to Galkis that she promised rewards to every member of the crew if we could cut two days off the crossing. I still have the Chirazian gold coin she gave me. I never had the heart to spend it. I had it pierced for an amulet instead. Not, of course, that the servants of Zeldin need such things,” added Engis hastily.
The Prince had not noticed his indiscretion. He was trying to imagine his stepmother Rimoka as a young girl anxious for love. `Father,' he thought, `why were you so cruel to those you couldn't love?'
“What is that land over there? That black hump on the horizon?” asked Forollkin.
“That's the Isle of Az, my Lord. This is the closest we'll sail to it, for it's an evil place by all I've ever heard.”
“It is there that the Dark Goddess has her temple,” murmured Kerish.
“Yes, your Highness,” said Engis, “the temple of Idaala, Lady of Blood, and with blood they worship her. They say there is a living goddess in the temple. Each year the priests of Az choose a consort for her and each year she murders him.”
“And it is her worshippers who snatch at our Empire!”
“Zeldin, preserve us all,” said Engis grimly.
“What's the island to the west there?” asked Forollkin, trying to shake off the darkness that seemed to emanate from Az.
“Ah, that's one of the seven islets. Each has a spring of fresh water and a good deep anchorage,” said Engis. “They're a great blessing to sailors and men call them the Footsteps of God.”
“When Zeldin wanted to cross the sea from Galkis to Ellerinonn, “ recalled Kerish, “he became tall as the stars. He crossed the sea in seven great strides and in the seven places where he wished to set down a foot, islands sprang up.”
“Ay, that's the tale. A true one no doubt,” said Engis quickly, recalling that the Prince claimed descent from that same god.
“Do the Brigands of Fangmere use the Footsteps?” asked Forollkin.
Engis nodded. “Yes my Lord, though even ten years ago they would not have dared. Now their ships haunt the whole sea. No passage is safe. Even close to the Galkian coast you'll find them hovering to snatch an unescorted merchant vessel or a careless pleasure craft.”
“What are their ships like?” asked Kerish.
“Narrow, nearly as swift as the Zeloka, but strong enough to ram almost anything. They hunt in pairs. They'll strip a vessel of its cargo and burn it; kill the old and the weak and take the rest for slaves, all in an hour. It's said that if they fail to capture a ship they must give Idaala her blood sacrifice from among their own men and that spurs them on.”
“The world is full of horrors,” sighed Kerish.
“Well I've shuddered enough,” announced Forollkin. “Let's talk of something more pleasant.”
“Yes.” Kerish sat up straight. “Captain, I have often heard praises of the chants that Galkian sailors sing. Let us hear some.”
“Kerish, the captain and his crew have to sail this ship,” said Forollkin reasonably. “They cannot spend all day entertaining you.”
Kerish did not look at him. “Lord Forollkin, what I choose to command is none of your concern. You will give the order, Captain Engis.”
“Yes, your Highness.”
Engis got up to call together the best singers but Forollkin pushed past him and went below to his cabin. Kerish sat for an hour listening to the chants, smiling nervously.
* * *
If Engis noticed a coolness between the brothers in the succeeding week, he was careful not to show it. Kerish's fascination with the ship rapidly turned to boredom. He spent hours of every day pacing restlessly round the deck. As the southernmost of the Jorgan Isles was sighted the Prince leaned eagerly over the rail to watch the land take shape. When they were close enough to see the villages on the rocky slopes Captain Engis approached him.
“Your Highness, if we were sailing to Jorg, there lies our way.” He pointed to a narrow channel between two islands. “Jorg itself is on the central isle and difficult to reach. The channel gets narrower further on and you need good charts or a local pilot not to founder on the rocks.”
“Presumably the Brigands of Fangmere have both,” said Kerish bitterly.
“Ay, your Highness, may the wind shred their sails!” muttered Engis. “They know every channel and current and rock. They sail in and out of these islands like children dodging behind trees in a game of Seek. Zeldin himself couldn't catch them, if you'll forgive the expression.”
Kerish was hardly listening. “I shall write to the Governor at Jorg informing him that I am inspecting the outer isles with six ships of war and that I expect to find everything put in order for my visit.”
Engis grinned. “The shock will whiten his beard, your Highness. You wish to send one of our triremes with the letter then?”
“No, all three. I have no need of soldiers or ships of war. My mission lies under Zeldin's protection.”
“But your Highness, only the coast of Ellerinonn itself is safe and we won't reach that for some days.” Engis was clearly dismayed. “These islands are infested with Brigand ships.”
“Captain, I have made up my mind,” snapped the Prince. “Give the order.”
Kerish went to his cabin to write the letter and Engis sought out Forollkin. He repeated the warnings about the dangers of travelling unescorted off the Jorgan Isles. Forollkin only said bitterly, “If His Highness has made up his mind there is nothing I can do. It is not my responsibility.”
An hour later a long boat carried the Prince's letter to the captain of the leading trireme. The three warships turned north and entered the narrow channel. With a fair wind still behind her the Zeloka skimmed across the purple waves towards Ellerinonn.
In the noonday heat Kerish lay on his couch beneath the awning. Forollkin was somewhere below. A gentle breeze turned the pages of his book and the ship was at its quietest. Suddenly, through the drowsy calm, came a screech like a sea-bird's. Kerish swung himself off the couch. His book fell to the deck. He shaded his eyes against the sun and looked round. The cry sounded again and Kerish realized that it came from the lookout high in the crow's nest. A second later he understood what the man was saying. “Fangmere! A Brigand ship!”
A hatch was thrown open. Engis, Forollkin and several crewmen clattered on to the deck. The captain shouted up to his lookout, listened for a moment and then strode to the rail with Forollkin at his heels. He stared northward for a minute and then turned, cursing, to bellow orders at his crew. To Forollkin the thing that menaced them was only a blurred shape against the horizon but to Kerish's longsighted eyes it was horribly clear.
A ship of war, its treble bank of oars scything the waters, was coming towards them with great force and speed. A ship the colour of blood with the mark of the Dark Goddess emblazoned on its sail. Captain Engis had a few precious minutes to decide whether to keep on course and try to outrun the Brigand vessel or to waste time in turning and head for the comparative safety of the nearest Jorgan village.
Engis spoke first to Forollkin, “On the closest island there's a village with a good harbour. It's an easy place to defend and I think the people will be loyal to us. If we can reach it.”
At a nod from Forollkin, Engis gave the order to turn the ship.
To Kerish and Forollkin the process seemed hideously slow as they hung over the rail watching the Brigand ship racing towards them. Soon they could make out the high prow, bound with iron, that would be us
ed to ram the Zeloka when the Brigands were close enough.
At last the Zeloka was facing the islands but she no longer had the wind behind her to give her speed. Half the crew rushed to man the oars. Others were adjusting the great sail and three men heated a cauldron of pitch for fire-arrows. With noise and confusion all around them the Prince and his brother stood in a haven of helpless calm. The Zeloka was rounding the headland of the nearest isle when the lookout gave another cry of horror.
A minute later the captain and crew saw what he had seen. A second Brigand ship had been hiding in the shelter of the bay. Now the Zeloka was caught between the two vessels.
“Lord Forollkin!” Grim-faced, Engis strode up to them. “They will try to board us. Fetch your sword and defend the hatchway. Your Highness, get below and lock your cabin door. If they break in, tell them who you are and they might ransom you.”
He left them, to see to the placing of archers.
Everywhere men were arming and taking up their stations for battle.
“Give me a sword!” Kerish called out but they ignored him.
The Prince pushed his way to the other side of the ship. In a few minutes the second Brigand vessel would be close enough to fasten on to the Zeloka with grappling hooks. Kerish could see the men of Fangmere crowding round the prow, iron hooks and chains in their left hands, swords or axes in their right. They were tall, white-skinned and white-haired, with eyes filled with the lust of battle for the glory of Idaala. An arrow whined through the air and thudded into the rail by Kerish's hand. He stared at it stupidly.
“Kerish, for Zeldin's sake, get below!”
It was Forollkin shouting at him but, still staring at the oncoming ship, the Prince shook his head. The gap between the ships was closing fast: fifty yards, thirty, twenty, ten... Grappling hooks flew through the air. The ships were locked together. A rain of fire-arrows came from the poop-deck and caught the sails of the Brigand vessel. The first of the Men of Fangmere leapt shrieking on to the deck, his white hair streaming behind him. An arrow pierced his throat and he fell. Others followed, swinging swords and axes and yelling the praises of Idaala.
Forollkin raced across the deck to his half brother. “Kerish! Are you mad? Get out of the way or they'll kill you!”
“Give me a sword!” shouted Kerish over the rising din of battle.
“You've never handled a sword in your life. It would be slashed out of your hand at the first stroke. Get below!”
“No. I am a Prince of the Godborn. I won't run away!”
In a few seconds the Men of Fangmere would reach the upper deck. Forollkin seized Kerish and pulled him towards the hatch.
“If you were the Emperor himself it wouldn't stop them splitting your skull. You're no use in battle. Don't hinder those who are trying to protect you!”
Kerish attempted to twist out of his brother's grasp.
“Oh Zeldin curse you!” muttered Forollkin. He grabbed hold of Kerish's long hair and pulled him through the hatchway. Kerish cried out in pain but he took no notice. Forollkin dragged his half-brother down a passage, opened the door of his cabin and flung him in.
“Now stay there! Come on deck and I swear I'll cut your throat myself. It will be a cleaner death than the Men of Fangmere would give you. Lock the door when I go out. Do you understand?”
Kerish held his hands to his aching head and whispered, “Yes.”
Forollkin slammed the door.
“You!” One of his own men was hurrying down the passage with an armful of arrows. “I'll take those. You guard the Prince's cabin.”
“Yes my Lord.”
The soldier stood with his back against the door, his sword in his hand.
Forollkin raced up on deck to find it covered with fighting men. He slammed down the hatch and stood on it, prepared to defend his half-brother to the death. A tall Brigand lunged at him with an axe. Forollkin ducked and the axe struck the rail behind him. In the second before the Brigand could pull it back Forollkin had thrust his sword in the man's stomach. His body slumped at Forollkin's feet.
The vessel they had sighted first would soon be close enough to disgorge a boarding party. Then, desperately outnumbered, there would be no hope. Forollkin shut out all other thoughts and concentrated on killing.
Careless of his own defence, he received a slash across the thigh, but cut off the swordsman's hand. All around him men were isolated on islands of battle, fighting for their lives. Forollkin no longer thought about any of them, even Kerish. He was alone with death. Three Brigands came towards him, one with an axe, two with swords. Forollkin drew his dagger, leaned back against the rail, and waited.
Within seconds a double attack came. With a numbing blow his sword was knocked from his hand. Forollkin lurched forward and plunged his dagger into the chest of one of his opponents. The man died, but the second Brigand leapt on Forollkin trying to pin back his arms for the third to thrust him through.
It was then that Forollkin heard, above the clash of swords and the moans of the dying, horns urgently blowing. After a few seconds, the man he was struggling with wrenched himself away. Weak with loss of blood, Forollkin slumped to the deck, waiting for death, but no sword fell.
* * *
Crouched on his bed, Kerish listened to the sounds of the bloody fight on the deck above. The clang of swords, the thud of axes, the hiss of arrows, the war cries of the Brigands and the screams of their victims. Kerish pressed his hands over his ears and shut his eyes to banish the sight of a wounded man hurtling past his window into the sea below. Sick with terror and helplessness, Kerish tried to pray but his lips would not form the words. His prayer was a long cry of agony, launched into emptiness. There was no answering calm, only mounting fear.
“Forollkin,” he whispered, “Oh Forollkin!”
Then he too heard the horns harshly blowing. It was the signal for retreat.
Stumbling over the bodies of the dead, the Men of Fangmere crowded back on to their ship, unhooking the grappling irons as they went. The first vessel had already swung round and was rowing swiftly away. Forollkin got up and staggered to where Engis stood at the rail. A few arrows still thudded into the deck but the Brigands were in full retreat.
“Why?” Forollkin demanded, “Why?”
Engis ordered one of his uninjured crewmen to climb the masthead. They soon had their answer.
“Our triremes, Sir, our triremes!” He clambered down again. “All three, Sir, my Lord, coming fast towards us.”
“Zeldin and Imarko be praised!” whispered the captain.
All over the ship, men were crouching to give thanks to the Gentle God.
The first ship of Fangmere was already well away but the second was pursued, rammed and sunk. Soon Engis and Forollkin were welcoming the captain of the third trireme aboard.
“What made you come back?” asked Forollkin at once.
“We met a fishing craft in the narrowest part of the channel,” answered the captain. “I'd seen no others all morning and I thought that strange, so we hailed the man. He told us that two ships of Fangmere had been lurking in the outer isles but had sailed off westward an hour before. I was afraid you might meet them, my Lord, so I gave the order to turn back.”
“The Prince will reward you,” promised Forollkin.
“I've many wounded and some dead,” said Engis, “I'll need the help of some of your crew, Captain.”
They began a tour of the deck to count the dead and comfort the wounded, but weak with his own loss of blood Forollkin suddenly swayed and leaned against a rail.
“That's a bad slash,” muttered Engis. “I'll take you below, my Lord.”
The wound was deep enough to have partly severed a muscle and the leg was beginning to stiffen. Engis himself cleansed the slash.
“Let the pain come out through your lips, my Lord,” said the captain as he probed the wound. “I'll think none the worse of you.”
The door opened and Kerish came slowly into the cabin.
�
��They told me you were wounded,” he said.
“His Lordship has taken a nasty slash,” Engis answered for him, “but it's nothing that won't mend.”
“I will tend it then,” said Kerish. “That's one skill I have learned.”
“Your Highness, are you injured too? You look...”
“No. Please go back to your men, Captain. I know you must want to be with them.”
Engis handed a damp cloth to the Prince. Kerish finished bathing the wound before asking, “How many of our men are dead?”
“Two of the escort and four of the crew. There's a dozen injured.”
As Kerish began to bandage his leg, Forollkin noticed black bruises on his brother's wrists where he had seized them so roughly.
Prince of the Godborn (Seven Citadels) Page 14
