Scimitar Moon

by Chris A. Jackson

  A soul-searing cry of anguish tore from Koybur’s throat as he watched the topmast pierce the sea like a spear. For a moment, he could only stare into the inky waters where Cynthia had vanished amid the roiling throng of merfolk. A simultaneous flip of tails thrashed the surface as the creatures dove, breaking his dreadful reverie. Decades of training took hold.

  “Man overboard!” he bellowed, pulling the wheel hard over to bring the ship around. “Rig a harness! You there, get a line over the side. We’ve got to—”

  The wheel wrenched out of his grasp as something heavy smashed into the blind side of his face. Koybur hit the deck and skidded until he lay in the scuppers, his senses returning as the ship rolled and seawater dashed his face. He sputtered blood and brine and glared back at Yodrin, who had taken the wheel and returned the ship to her former course. The pirate ignored him, shouting orders to secure the broken cordage and check the hull for leaks. Ships struck by lightning might survive untouched or be blown to bits. Miraculously, Hippotrin seemed to have taken the brunt of the bolt in her rigging.

  Koybur levered himself to his feet as Hippotrin sailed into the eye of the storm. The winds eased, and he looked around as Yodrin ordered more sail aloft. To the east, at the edge of the eyewall, loomed the dark silhouette of an island. The unmistakable double peak told him exactly where they were: Vulture Isle, the southern-most in the chain. The Fathomless Reaches and calmer, deeper water lay to the south. If they could clear the island’s reef while still in the storm’s eye, they would be safe.

  His gaze swept aft at their frothing wake, but there was nothing to see. No trace of the fallen mast, no trace of the merfolk, and no trace of Cynthia Flaxal. She had been swallowed by the sea. A wave of exhaustion unlike anything he had felt rose within him; he limped toward the hatchway, thinking only of a warm bunk and dry clothes.

  “Get your arse back on this wheel, you old gimp,” Yodrin shouted, breaking through his thoughts.

  Koybur looked back at the pirate, his gaze as dead as Cynthia Flaxal.

  “No.”

  “No? What the hell do you mean, no? Get over here or I’ll have a knife in your gut!”

  “You’ve just cut yer own throat, Yodrin.” Koybur grinned his horrible lop-sided grin at the pirate’s blank stare. “Bloodwind wanted her alive. No permanent damage, remember? Yer a dead man. You just ain’t stopped breathin’ yet.”

  He turned and headed below, ignoring the curses and threats flung at his back. If Yodrin came to kill him, so be it. He’d already killed the only real friend he had. He had only one thing left in this world that he cared about, and he wondered if it was too late for him to save even that.

  CHAPTER Thirty-Three

  Flotsam

  The entire populace of Southaven crowded the quay wall as Orin’s Pride sailed between the breakwaters in a full gale. The storm had hastened the Pride’s passage home; to Feldrin, it hardly felt like only two full days since they’d left on what was supposed to have been a simple day sail. They’d covered more sea miles than a galleon could have managed in a week.

  “Bring her upwind next to the shipyard. We’ll kedge off and tie stern-to.”

  “Aye, Captain.” Horace altered heading and shouted orders to the men on the foredeck. “Looks like every man, woman and child in Southaven’s here to meet us.”

  “Good. We need ’em.”

  Rowland stepped up beside the wheel and stared at the crowded quay. “They were prob’ly worried to start with when we didn’t come back, and now seein’ only one ship instead of two…”

  “More the better,” Feldrin said. His stomach clenched at the news he brought.

  The ship rounded up in a perfect arc, her bow into the wind to curb their speed as the crew furled the sails. As they began to drift backward, the anchor splashed into the harbor, and the men in the bow paid out rode until her stern bobbed only a dozen feet from the pier. When lines were tied to the bollards and a gangplank secured to the stern he took his crew ashore, leaving a man on watch with strict orders to stand at the boarding plank with a naked cutlass in his hand. As Feldrin stepped onto the pier, questions broke over him like a wave.

  “Where’s Hippotrin?”

  “What happened?”

  “Where’s the Flaxal girl?”

  Feldrin pushed through the crowd, eyes straight forward. Finally, a figure of lesser stature but greater momentum than the rest pushed forward and stopped Feldrin’s progress with a glare that would have hulled a warship.

  “That’s far enough!” Dura stood with her broad hands on her broader hips, squinting grimly up at Feldrin. “I aim tu know what’s ’appened, and I aim tu know where Master Ghelfan is. Yu’re not takin’ ano’er step ’til I get me answer.”

  “Hippotrin was taken by pirates,” he said without preamble. “The man you know as Troilen was a bloody traitor fer Bloodwind. We don’t know about Master Ghelfan or Cyn—or Mistress Flaxal—but Rafen Ulbattaer, Master Keelson and several others were killed.”

  Shouts rose from the tight cluster of dockyard workers, among them Keelson’s two sons, but Feldrin bellowed, “Quiet!” and even Dura fell silent at the rage that flashed onto his usually calm features.

  “We’ve no time fer this! I aim to refit Orin’s Pride with enough men and weapons to take Hippotrin back, but we’ve gotta move fast if we hope to find her. We’ll be takin’ volunteers, but only those who’ll fight. We sail fer the Shattered Isles on tomorrow mornin’s tide. Any merchant captains here who want a piece of the bastards who did this, talk to me tonight at the Starfish. We got a lot to do, and only a day to do it, so don’t pester my people with questions. Dura, I need you.”

  “Damn straight ya need me, laddie,” she said, her voice grating like a file on slate. “Yer no’ leavin’ this ’arbor wi’out me.”

  “Bloody fine!” He clapped a hand onto her massive shoulder; its strength and her determination filled him with hope that he hadn’t felt in two days. With that hope, his fatigue and despair ebbed away. He lifted his head and strode through the crowd, calling out, “Somebody send fer the lightkeeper. We’ll be in Keelson’s lofting shed.”

  “What if he won’t come?” someone shouted.

  “Then tell him I’ll come and get him myself, and I won’t be gentle.” He strode toward Keelson’s shed, the crowd parting before him like the sea before the prow of a ship.

  *

  Cynthia woke coughing and spitting sand and seawater.

  She lay in six inches of surf with white sand stretching out before her. The topmast to which she was still bound had floated ashore, and she with it. A warm wave washed over her from foot to head, driving her further ashore and filling her clothes with sand.

  She forced herself onto her elbows and coughed, spitting more bits of shell. Crawling forward proved impossible with several hundred pounds of timber hampering her efforts, so she rolled onto her side and sat up in the lap-deep surf, trying to collect her thoughts.

  Her mind flooded with insubstantial memories and half-dreams, all jumbled into a morass of images. She remembered climbing the mast, but had no clear recollection of it breaking away or falling into the sea, though it obviously had.

  Did the whole ship break up? she wondered.

  An image of thousands of webbed hands touching her, caressing her and carrying her filled her mind’s eye. She dismissed that as a simple dream, and shook her head to clear it. She remembered Mouse then, and recalled flinging him into the darkness as sparks glittered from her hand and the medallion.

  “My medallion!”

  She raised her hand; the token still dangled from her thumb where the little sprite had tied it.

  “What the…?” She stared at the silver crescent—something she should remember about it. Another shallow breaker broke her reverie, flooding her skirts with grit and rolling her over the buoyant topmast.

  Working herself upright as she spit more sand, she untied the knot that secured her to the spar then set to work on the one around her wrist.
She fumbled with her left hand and her teeth, the amulet dangling in the way from her left thumb.

  First things first, she thought. She applied her fingernails and teeth to the medallion’s knotted chain, but was thwarted by wave after warm wave washing over her.

  “Bloody hell!” she swore, struggling to her feet. Sand had invaded every bit of her clothing, and the buttons of her blouse had gone missing. The chemise and corset were sodden and full of grit. A memory flashed: sailors clutching at her legs, tearing her skirts off below the knee as she climbed the mast. The storm… thunder and lightening and wild laughter filled her head as she clung to the top of the mast and looked down at… Koybur. With a physical wrench of pain, her mind opened like a hatch giving way to a rogue wave, and the dreadful memories flooded in: Koybur’s betrayal, the pirate Yodrin slicing open the soles of her feet, Ghelfan agreeing to set Hippotrin ablaze…

  She almost fell back into the water.

  She stumbled ashore and pitched forward onto her hands and knees, wondering blankly why her feet did not stab her with every step. She rolled onto her backside and pulled her knees tight into her chest, staring out across the sapphire-blue lagoon to the roaring surf beyond the reef. The remnants of the storm raged on, house-high waves crashing onto the barrier of coral, a razor-sharp wall ready to tear apart anything—ship or sailor—that tried to cross it.

  “So why am I in one piece?” she asked. Although her clothing hung in tatters, her arms and legs weren’t even scratched. She brushed bits of sand and shell from the soles of her feet, but the skin beneath shone unmarred.

  “What in the Nine Hells?”

  She sat and stared into space, trying to remember what had happened at the top of the mast, but she could recall nothing beyond pitching Mouse into the night.

  Why would I do that? she thought, absently picking at the knots in the thin chain of her amulet. Finally, it lay free in her palm. She whipped the broken ends into a quick knot and hung it back around her neck. The topmast still rolled in the surf, and her eyes were drawn to the jagged line of charred wood that ran from its tip to the blasted remnants of the trestletrees.

  “Lightning?”

  All right, she thought, lightning struck the mast. But that conclusion only posed another question: So how come I’m not dead? She stood and started forward to inspect the charred spar, when a voice, low pitched and melodious, rose above the roaring surf in a sing-song call.

  She whirled to scan the line of jungle beyond the flotsam-strewn beach, sudden hope rising in her chest. Someone lived here! Someone had found her! Someone…

  “Uh-oh.” Hope withered with her first sight of the two men emerging from the jungle.

  They strode onto the beach, the sun glinting on skin darker than well-oiled teak stretched over long, well-muscled frames. Their wide, high-cheekboned faces were adorned with bone and shell ornaments, and their straight black hair was decorated with colorful feathers. They wore barely enough to cover their loins, but carried an assortment of items. One held a fishing spear, and the other a bow, one slim arrow nocked and ready. Each also bore a curved club set with sharp stones. They smiled as they approached, but the smiles seemed more the bared fangs of wolves than signs of welcome.

  Cannibals, she thought, recalling all the grim tales of the savages of the Shattered Isles. And dinner just washed up on the beach!

  She looked right and left; nothing but sand strewn with downed palm trees curved away from her on both sides, open and seemingly endless. She had nowhere to run, which didn’t really matter considering their long legs and her sodden, encumbering clothing. She backed up, but her heels met with the fallen topmast and she pitched backward into the surf, yelping in alarm.

  Laughter, it seemed, was the same in any language. Their mirth rolled forth in a throaty roar as they advanced, wading into the surf without pause. She scrabbled up and backed into the water, thinking only to put something, anything, between her and the two savages. The water deepened, slowing her retreat.

  “Stop!” she shouted, throwing out her hands as if to hold them back, fear surging through her. “Just stop or I’ll—”

  Their reaction caught her off guard. She hoped they might slow their approach or even stop, but when they suddenly stared wide eyed, turned and ran for the shore, she stood dumbfounded. Then she heard the roar of surf, and looked over her shoulder.

  She screeched in shock as a huge breaker reared up from the lagoon and swept forward, towering over her in a curl of azure and white. She braced herself for it, knowing it would bowl her over and tumble her down onto the hard sand. When it passed her without even ruffling her matted hair, she cautiously opened her eyes and stood in shock.

  She watched the wave roar up the beach, chasing the fleeing men and rolling the fallen spar up onto dry sand before crashing flat. Even the backwash, which should have swept her off her feet, passed her by with no more than a brush at her legs. She stood in thigh-deep water, looking around for the source of the phenomenon. The shocked cries of the men turned to menacing mutters as they stared at her suspiciously, brandishing their weapons.

  “What the hell?”

  They approached again, this time more cautiously, their smiles absent. She watched them come, her mind whirling with too many questions. Where had the wave come from? Why hadn’t it smashed her down like it should have?

  She put her hands down into the water and swirled them about, but felt nothing unusual. The two men stood at the edge of the surf, staring at her cautiously and conversing in a melodious and alien language. Finally, they strode slowly forward, watching her every move.

  “I said, stop!” she shouted again. This time, as she uttered the words she felt a rush of warmth. Once again, the sea surged past her, forming into a wave right in front of her, which, like its predecessor, chased the two men up onto the beach, then receded harmlessly.

  “I did that,” she muttered, realizing that both waves had come at her bidding, rising up to shield her from the approaching men. “But how?” She put her hands into the water and willed it to do something, anything.

  Up! she thought.

  The sea rose up around her, a mound of water flooding in from all directions until it covered her hips, then her stomach, and finally stopped when she overcame her surprise and thought, Stop!

  The level of water held at her chest, a perfect dome perhaps ten strides across, centered on her. She looked around, but the rest of the lagoon glittered calm and unruffled. Cynthia could feel it now, the warmth of the sea surrounding her, permeating her as if it did not stop at her skin, but flowed through her every pore. She could also feel a slight effort, as if she held her arms out straight and her shoulders were beginning to tire.

  Cries of alarm and fear snapped her attention, and the mound of water collapsed into concentric waves that broke on the shore in gentle curves.

  The two men shouted at one another, pointing at her and gesticulating. They obviously did not know what to make of her, and were not about to try to capture her if it meant walking through a wall of angry water.

  “But how?” she asked in bewilderment, struggling to remember what had passed, where she might have encountered this kind of power. Had the lightning affected her? Had Mouse imbued her with some faerie magic?

  “Magic…” And with that word, that thought, her hand caressed the medallion at her breast. “Sea magic.”

  Cynthia lifted the scimitar moon medallion and held it up, stirring the memory of the previous night, when the sky held that very image. The alignment of the moon with the distinctive cluster of stars combined with the storm… her storm.

  “Odea’s requirements…” she said softly, remembering the words she’d read in her father’s journal.

  She tried her new trick again, holding out a hand and forming a simple request in her mind. Up to my hand.

  To her surprise and delight, a column of water geysered up to splash her palm.

  Laughter bubbled up from her throat in response. She tried it again,
and again, swirling the water around her in patterns and wavelets at the sweep of her hand, sending it up into spouts and spurts with flicks of her fingers, laughing with each new display. Her father’s gift had been awakened in her; she could feel the power, and more than the power, she felt a surge of satisfaction that she finally had a link to her parents that could never be broken.

  More cries from the confused men drew her attention, but now instead of brandishing weapons, they had cast them aside and knelt on the sand, arms outstretched, palms up in supplication. They glanced up at her furtively, but cast their eyes down when she met their gazes. She laughed again, this time in satisfaction.

  “Well, who’s scared now?”

  She risked a few steps forward, pulling a standing wave with her. The men remained still, mumbling in their own language, oblivious to her approach. She couldn’t trust them, she knew, but if she could maintain a sufficient level of fear, she might get out of this in one piece. She would need food at the very least, and a boat, if they had one. She had no doubt that Feldrin would scour the archipelago for her, so even a signal fire might be sufficient.

  She wrapped a column of seawater around herself from her hips down and strode into the ankle-deep portion of the surf. This, she thought, should be adequately impressive. One of them glanced up, and immediately cowered again at the sight of her watery dress.

  “You have boats?” she asked, not really expecting them to understand, but hoping they might, and not knowing what else to try. If they did understand, and thought her some sort of wizard or deity, they just might comply. “You bring me boat. You have food. You bring me food.” The last, she realized with a start, might yield something she would not want to eat if they were indeed cannibals.

  They remained silent and impassive, quivering in fear.

  “Bloody hell,” she muttered, stepping forward. “Come on, boys. Go get your headman for me. Maybe he can understand me. I need you to bring me food and a boat. Food and a boat, understand? Food and a—”

  As she spoke and took one more step forward, the gentle waves swept back down the beach into the lagoon, leaving her standing on the damp sand. As she lost contact with the surf, the cocoon of water enveloping her collapsed with a splash. Cynthia stood in her dripping, torn skirt and ripped blouse, staring at the two dark faces that gazed up at her in surprise.