Scimitar Moon

by Chris A. Jackson

  Their smiles slowly returned.

  “Damn.” She whirled and fled for the security of the water, but the length of rope tied to her wrist flung out in an arc and slapped into the outstretched palm of one of her erstwhile admirers.

  The line came taut and jerked her right off her feet. She let out an involuntary squeal of alarm and landed like a sack of wet meal falling from the back of a wagon. Before she could even think, she was being dragged up the beach, the rough hemp once again digging painfully into her wrist. Halfway up the beach she thought to call on the sea for aid, and a great breaker roared ashore, but it failed to even wet her feet.

  She felt the transition from sand to the soft mat of detritus beneath the canopy of jungle, but the pace of her captors didn’t slow. She bumped and bounced along, cursing and crying out in pain and alarm every time they dragged her over a root or branch.

  How ironic, she thought, to finally receive the blessings of my father, only to be eaten by cannibals.

  *

  Mouse hunkered in the crook of the main topmast trestletrees, wedged into the tiny gap between plank and spar as tightly as a cork in a rum bottle.

  The storm had finally subsided with the dawn, and though he had enjoyed the ride, he missed Cynny and wanted to find her as soon as he could. But things weren’t looking good. First, she had thrown him away just when things were getting fun. That nearly sent him flying loose in the middle of a hurricane, but he’d managed to grasp a flapping halyard and hoist himself to the top of the mainmast. Now, however, he was pretty much stuck. He had no wings to speak of and couldn’t fly more than a few feet. If he climbed down, someone would likely see him.

  Odea’s favored or no, he doubted if Yodrin would quail at squishing a seasprite, so shinnying down the mast wasn’t a good idea. There was so much Mouse didn’t understand. He thought Koybur and Cynny were friends. And he thought Troilen was also a friend, but now they called him Yodrin, and he wasn’t a friend. It was all very confusing, so Mouse did what he usually did when things scared and confused him.

  He hid.

  He was good at hiding, having done so for more than a decade while the broom-wielder ruled the big house. He had thought his hiding days were over, but now it looked like he would have to go into hiding again.

  He hunkered down out of the wind, sighing, and wished Cynny were here. Cynny was fun. Cynny climbed masts in storms and called the lightning down to play. He wished she hadn’t gone swimming with the fish people. The one place he couldn’t follow her was underwater.

  He sighed again; he missed her already.

  CHAPTER Thirty-Four

  Unexpected Guests

  Being dragged through the jungle is usually not conducive to a good mood on the part of the one being dragged, even if that person is not expecting to be eaten at the end of the ordeal. Consequently, Cynthia was mad enough to chew iron and spit nails when her two escorts deposited her into a large clearing beneath a ring of towering banyan trees. Exhausted, sore and filthy from head to foot, she struggled to her feet and let out a stream of profanity that would have made her grandfather blush.

  Musical language and laughter brought her up short; she stood in the center of an entire village of natives, none wearing much more than a bit of grass or leather around their loins, numerous necklaces and body jewelry of bone and mother of pearl. Cynthia stood and stared, watching the unfamiliar faces examining at her, listening to the whispers and trying to gauge their moods… or their appetites.

  Her two captors yammered on to the audience, gesticulating wildly. From the pantomime, she guessed they were describing her tricks with the waters of the lagoon. The dark-skinned faces grew wide-eyed and slack-jawed at the tale, and some even averted their eyes from hers. She thought about trying to make a run for it, but knew they would catch her in an instant. While weighing her options, Cynthia finally managed to get the rough hemp line untied from around her wrist. She winced and blew on the ravaged flesh to soothe the bloody abrasion, but a shout from the midst of the crowd startled her, and silenced the throng.

  A man with the girth of a small whale strode forward, a huge gnarled stick set with all manner of stones in one meaty hand. Bones rattled from half a dozen necklaces, and the feathers of an entire flock of tropical birds adorned his hair, neck, arms and loins. Around both wrists he wore spiral tusks, and from his ears hung two gleaming white shark’s teeth, each as large as the palm of Cynthia’s hand.

  The headman, or shaman? she wondered, eyeing him cautiously as he inspected her. His eyes were sharp and shrewd, and did not shy away from meeting her gaze. He barked a short command at the two who had captured her and they stepped forward. He was not smiling, and they shuffled their feet nervously. A few sharp questions yielded hesitant answers, then he took a step toward her, his stride confident but cautious.

  Cynthia backed away. He bore no weapon, but she felt like he was sizing her up for the cook pot.

  He said a few words to her, smiling and holding out one pudgy palm, all the sharp edges of his tone suddenly gone. He took one more cautious step, but she again backed away.

  The exasperation on his face would have been humorous if Cynthia weren’t so utterly terrified. He turned away, scanning the crowd before shouting a single word. Everyone mumbled and repeated the word, and several cried out what sounded like answers. A bent old man hobbled out from under one of the huge banyans, leaning heavily on the shoulder of a strong young boy as he worked his way through the crowd. Cynthia saw immediately his need for support: his left leg ended at the ankle. He walked gingerly on the stump, using the boy as a crutch.

  Aside from missing a foot, the man also appeared only slightly younger than the island itself, and the years had not treated him with a kind touch. His eyes were hazy, and his back bent. Hands like fists full of walnuts gripped the boy’s shoulder, and when he grimaced at the obvious pain of every step, she could see that he had few good teeth remaining in his mouth.

  When he finally stood nearby, the headman barked that one word again and added a string of other words. Then, to Cynthia’s astonishment, the old man spoke to her in her own language, though broken and heavily accented.

  “You some kine-a wizaad, eh? He say you move wata. Make wave big as a baobab tree.” He squinted at her. “What he say true?”

  “I, uh...” She thought about claiming to be a mighty sorceress, but for all she knew they burned mages for sport. The truth seemed the safest option. “I don’t know. I have some… some way to make the water do what I ask, but I don’t think I’m a wizard. I mean, I don’t know any spells or anything.”

  “Hmph.” He looked back to the headman and said a few things, then received additional instructions, which he translated. “He say you Odea’s child. You swim wit da fish folk? You make da storm come? Or do da storm bring you from Odea? You Odea’s gift to us, dey say.”

  “I am not a gift from Odea. My father was a seamage, and I think that I received some of his powers from the storm.” Cynthia’s curiosity began to overcome her fear. “Who are you, anyway? What island is this?”

  “You fada? Who be you fada, girl?”

  “Tell me your name first,” she shot back obstinately.

  “Ha!” He turned and rattled off a few unintelligible words to the headman, who laughed and grinned. “I be Whuafa,” he said, making the name three distinct syllables. “Now what be you name, and who be you fada?”

  “I’m Cynthia Flaxal. My father was Orin Flaxal.”

  The ancient eyes widened. “Flaxal? Na. You no be Flaxal.” He shook his head sharply, his hazy eyes squinting at her. “You don’ look notin’ like ’im.”

  “You knew him? You knew my father?” She stepped forward, eager to learn more, even if he had only met her father in passing.

  “Knew ’im, aye. Lost me foot to a shark de day we met. Saved me life, ’e did. Sent dat shark away wi’ a wave of ’is ’and.” He hobbled forward, his rheumy eyes narrowing. “Knew ’im well enough ta know what ’e wore ‘ro
und ’is neck! You got dat? You got dat same token?”

  Cynthia realized that he had seen the chain around her neck, though the medallion lay hidden beneath her chemise. She drew it over her head and showed it to him. “Yes, I’ve got his medallion.”

  His ancient hand shot out, quick as a snake, bony fingers grasping her sore wrist with hysterical strength. He thrust her hand high and shouted at the top of his withering voice, “Shambata daroo!”

  The entire population of the village charged forward, all of them shouting the strange words. Two hundred hands reached for her, a hundred voices crying out their glee. Laughter and shouts rang out all around, the headman bellowing commands that drew more shouts of assent. Hands grasped Cynthia, lifting her up and bearing her along. She screeched in protest, her fears of becoming their next meal instantly renewed. Then she heard Whuafa’s reedy voice rise above the din.

  “Relax, Cynthie Flaxal! You is da seamage! You is oua save-ya!”

  Savior? She thought, trying not to fight the hundreds of hands bearing her along to who knew where. You’ve got to be kidding me!

  *

  “Can you build it?” Feldrin asked, stepping back from his rough plans.

  “Oh, aye. Easy enough. Though it might could use a bit’o beefin’ up around the windings. How many you need?” She drew out a pair of calipers and started taking measurements from the rough drawings.

  “Four at least. Depends on what the lightkeeper can come up with by mornin’. What about Orin’s Pride?”

  “Don’t presume tu teach me ma own business, laddie. I c’n turn out the parts for half a dozen o’ these contraptions by mornin’ and they c’n assemble ’em aboard. The Pride’ll be fit fer sea a’fore sunset. Keelson’s boys’re all over it like ants on an apple core.”

  “Bloody fine. Now I’ve got to see about that old—”

  “Feldrin!” Rowland’s shout brought him around with a snap.

  “Row, tell me you’ve got good news.” He’d sent the cook into town to rally support from the locals. Without any ready cash, he doubted just how willing they would be to donate or loan their goods and services to the cause.

  “Easier just to show ya.” He waved him to the door, his ancient face splitting into a grin.

  “Holy mother of…” Feldrin’s voice drifted off as he took in the maelstrom of activity outside.

  Six wagons sat upon the quay, an army of workers unloading provisions, weapons, tools and a hundred other items that he hadn’t even thought to ask for. Beside Orin’s Pride, two fat galleons were kedged off and tied stern to, their cargoes being off-loaded onto low river barges. He knew both ships; Winter Gale and Southern Star. The captains of both ships strode through the crowd toward him, their eyes as hard as diamonds.

  “A nasty business, this,” Dorren Clearwater, captain of Southern Star said grimly, extending his long-fingered hand to Feldrin. “Knew Benjamin Garrison all my life. Now his granddaughter’s been taken by that bastard Bloodwind? Nasty business, indeed.”

  “I can’t believe what Rowland told us about Koybur. I’ve known him near twenty years!” Uben shook his hand as well, and matched the Morrgrey’s powerful grip. “So what’s yer plan, Brelak?”

  “You offerin’ to help?” Feldrin didn’t have time for banter, they would either say yes, or he had no use for them.

  “More’n offerin’, I think.” Dorren nodded over his shoulder. “Already off-loadin’ cargo and takin’ on supplies. Southern Star ain’t so speedy as your new schooner there, but she’ll haul twice the men and four times the provisions.”

  “Schooner? You mean the Pride?”

  “Oh, aye, you weren’t here fer that. When you sailed out of the harbor every sea captain and mate in Southaven was up on the hill watchin’. Lorri Fender of the Provender said ‘Don’t they just schoon right along, now,’ and the name stuck.”

  “Well, that’s as good as any name, I guess.”

  “Damn near every captain in port has offered to help, though some can’t commit their ships.” Uben pointed out the ships still on their moorings or along the main city quay. “The Independent, Southwind, Star Chaser, and Syren Song are all comin’ along, though we’ll have to near empty Southaven to man ’em all.” He grinned and clapped Feldrin’s broad shoulder. “You’ve got a whole fleet, lad! Now we’ve got to sit down and decide how to put it to best use.”

  “Fine! Bloody fine!” Feldrin sighed like the weight of the world had just been lifted from his shoulders. “Tonight, then, at the Starfish. Bring every captain who’ll come, and we’ll lay out a plan.”

  “And we sail on the mornin’ tide,” Uben added.

  “Aye,” Brelak agreed, setting his jaw firmly. “We sail fer the Shattered Isles at dawn.”

  *

  Hippotrin limped into Blood Bay under reduced sail. As her anchor splashed into the water half a dozen longboats rowed from shore, Bloodwind in the foremost, his personal guard, his sorceress and his bride-to-be in company. As his launch pulled alongside, the pirate captain leapt aboard, his broad hand grasping that of the ship’s captain in camaraderie.

  “Well done, Yodrin!” He pumped the slim half-elf’s hand, his eyes taking in the salt-crusted decks and the storm-worn rigging and crew. “She’s a bit worse for wear, but she’s ours, and that’s what really matters. Well done, indeed!”

  “I only regret that we could not take both ships, Captain,” Yodrin said as Bloodwind turned to help Camilla aboard.

  “Bah! A fish in the basket’s worth two in the bay.” He pulled Camilla close and began a slow circuit of the deck. “Smaller than I’d thought, but I imagine she’s a speedy craft.”

  “We logged near twenty knots in the storm, sir. She’ll make better than five points to the wind.”

  “And the prisoners? They fared well, I trust.”

  Yodrin stopped short, his calm features stiffening with apprehension.

  “Only one prisoner survived the trip, sir. The Flaxal girl went mad during the storm. She climbed the ratlines and lashed herself to the topmast. We were struck by lightning, and as you can see, the fore-top went by the board. There was no way to recover her in the storm.”

  “That is…” Bloodwind paused, his elation slackening somewhat as his eyes took on a far-off look. “…disappointing. I assume she was restrained.”

  “Of course, sir. Bound securely.”

  “And yet she escaped.” He fingered his ruddy beard, his broad smile thinning. “How might that have happened?”

  “We don’t know, sir. They got a knife somehow. They must have had help. I have my suspicions, but no proof.”

  “They had help?” One eyebrow raised in question, a danger signal for everyone who knew the pirate captain. “Both of them escaped?”

  “Briefly, sir. They tried to sabotage the ship. Ghelfan was subdued and secured in my cabin. The Flaxal girl was lost.”

  “And your suspicions?” His eyes raked the small crew like a loaded ballista.

  “That’d be me.” Koybur emerged from belowdecks, hobbling forward, his one good eye focused on Bloodwind. “Which is just plain stupid.”

  “That’s the last time you use that mouth, gimp!” Yodrin snarled, a dagger flashing into his hand too fast for anyone to see. He started forward, but a broad hand on his shoulder stopped him.

  “Why, Mister Koybur! We finally meet in the flesh.” Bloodwind smiled, dismissing Yodrin’s rage as he stepped between the two. Camilla gasped, but Bloodwind’s grip on her arm silenced her outburst.

  “Your services have been indispensable over the years, my good man.” Bloodwind extended a hand, but Koybur just looked at it, then up at the pirate’s face, his one eye narrowing.

  “I didn’t do it fer yer thanks, Bloodwind. I did it fer my daughter. On yer word; I’ve done yer dirty work fer more’n a dozen years. We stand on the deck of the last part of our deal. You promised me if I got you one of Cynthia Flaxal’s ships, you’d give me Camilla. Let me see my Cammy.”

  Bloodwind’s hand
dropped slowly, but his smile remained intact. Such an insult from any other man would have earned a knife in the belly, but Bloodwind knew that if he killed Koybur, he would lose Camilla. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t hurt the man.

  “See her? Why she’s right here. Don’t you recognize your own daughter?” He nudged Camilla forward as if displaying her, arrayed as she was in sensuous silks and glittering jewelry.

  “What?” Koybur’s face fell. The pent-up rage of fifteen years seeped away like water poured into sand. He looked her up and down, and in his slack features Bloodwind could see that he knew she was no slave. “Cammy?”

  “Daddy, I—”

  “And your arrival could not have come at a better time,” Bloodwind continued, cutting her off before she could ruin his surprise. “You’ll be able to give away the bride.”

  “The what?”

  He had not thought the old cripple’s face could register more shock, but he was wrong. The man’s good hand quaked at his side, his stance wavering unsteadily, until Bloodwind thought he might collapse. Koybur’s good eye roamed over his daughter, her immaculate clothes, the intricate braids of her hair, the exquisite jewelry. He noted how closely Bloodwind held her, and how she accepted that embrace.

  “You… you can’t.” Koybur’s maimed features hardened, disbelief evolving into anguish. “Cammy, you can’t want this!”

  “I...”

  Camilla trembled against him, and though Bloodwind showed nothing, he felt some of that tension in himself. Her answer would shape not only her future, but that of her father and countless others. If she denied him now, Koybur served no purpose. But this moment also defined her commitment to him. Bloodwind had devoted much to cultivating her as his perfect bride; if she had lied to him, if her love proved false, his wrath would sweep the southern continent in a tidal wave of blood.