A Veil of Spears

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Kerim lay at the base of the stairs leading to the quarterdeck. The blackened features of his frame were curled in misery. He’d still not opened himself to Çeda, but Çeda didn’t blame him. Onur was close enough now that Kerim was surely already struggling against the magic that bound him to do no harm against the Kings. The coming battle loomed, and she had no doubt he could enter the fray—such was his rage—but could he finish it? She prayed that he could and that Salsanna could help him. They would need his strength in the coming battle.

  Zaïde and Salsanna stopped speaking as Çeda, Sümeya, and Melis gathered round. Macide watched and listened, his arms folded across his chest, revealing the snake tattoos that ran along his forearms.

  Sümeya reached into the bag at her belt and took out a small clutch of dried adichara petals. Each was pure white save for one end, which turned a dusty blue, rather like clouds giving way to a clear sky. She began by handing one to Melis, Çeda, and Zaïde. Then, in a show of solidarity, she held another out to Salsanna.

  Salsanna, however, refused her. “My bond with Kerim is strong enough. I would not jeopardize the balance we’ve found.”

  Sümeya paused, perhaps wondering if it was worth convincing her otherwise. To Çeda’s great surprise, she turned and offered the petal to Macide instead. “The day will be long,” she said. “It might help.”

  Macide stared at it, then took in Sümeya anew. In the end, he waved the offer away. “I’d likely chop off my own hand.”

  Sümeya shrugged and placed the petal beneath her tongue. Çeda did the same, as did Melis and Zaïde. As a war horn sounded in the distance, Çeda’s awareness expanded. So often she’d felt as though the petals were a tool, little different from River’s Daughter. Things were different now. She knew so much more about the nature of the petals and the adichara. The twisted trees were fed by the blood of the innocent, the tributes taken from Sharakhai, and the power of the petals came from them. The tributes had been taken against their will, but through these petals they lived on, making the petals and the verve they granted feel like a gift, a thing to be cherished, a thing to be respected as well. So as the world around her became sharper, as the sounds of the skis against the sand intensified, as the baked smell of the desert filled her senses, she gave thanks to those who had died that she might be ready for the coming day.

  As the verve began to settle, she felt Kerim’s discomfort more keenly. She also felt the strength Salsanna lent him. Their bond was strong indeed. Çeda wondered whether she had shared as much with him. Perhaps not. She cared deeply for Kerim, but he’d never forgiven her for Havva, the asir King Cahil had murdered in King’s Harbor, once Kerim’s wife. Havva had imprinted herself on Çeda, much as Kerim had later done before the two of them had headed into the desert together. But Mesut had sensed their shared bond, and had killed Havva for it. There was no such history between Salsanna and Kerim, and Çeda saw how truly powerful a bond could become.

  Again Çeda wondered about Mesut’s heavy golden bracelet, wrapped around Salsanna’s wrist, the jet stone glinting dully in the morning light. Çeda wondered if they might find a way to unlock its secrets together. But it would have to wait until the battle was done.

  The war horns sounded again, three sharp blasts, an indicator that battle was imminent. Çeda was just turning to look for Onur on the decks of the enemy ships when a black line streaked through the air toward the Amaranth.

  “Cat’s claws!” a crewman called.

  The line writhed like a snake. Two heavy balls of iron were affixed to the ends. It splashed against the sand, well short of their ships. A second came in, and a third, these aimed with more skill. One flew high and struck the ship to the Amaranth’s port side; it thudded hard against the hull and fell to the sand. The other caught the ship behind the Amaranth. The chain wrapped around the starboard strut and slipped down to where the large iron hooks affixed to the weights dug into the sand. It not only slowed the ship, it forced it sharply starboard. Cat’s claws weren’t meant to debilitate but to sow chaos, to prevent an enemy’s force from striking all at once.

  More of them flew from both lines. Two launched from the Amaranth’s catapults arced swiftly toward a Black Spear galleon. One caught ineffectually in the ship’s shrouds. The other snapped around the galleon’s rudder. The chain seemed fouled for a moment, the hooks too high, but then it dropped and the hooks dug furrows in the sand. One by one, ships began to flag and trail behind the bulk of the fleet. It happened on the far side of Onur’s fleet as well, which was now divided so that it might meet the threat of Tribe Kadri’s fleet.

  Crewmen were dispatched below the ships to release the cat’s claws, but they were targeted by archers. Many were shot before they could reach the chains. They fell, their bodies littering the sand as their ships sailed on.

  Then the fire pots began to fly.

  Dozens were launched into the air, their flames trailing black smoke as they arced between the ranks of ships like falling suns. One crashed onto the deck of the Amaranth but was quickly smothered with sand. Another hit the foredeck. A third hit the loose netting that had been deployed across much of the starboard side. Caught in the net, the pot rolled down and was thrown over the side of the ship by two young boys wearing thick leather gloves. Their gloves were set aflame by the oil, but the pot was gone, and they put the fire out by vigorously slapping their hands together.

  Far ahead of the Amaranth, the lead ship along their line shouldered into the enemy line. The two ships shuddered as their hulls crashed together. They sailed on, their sails and rigging shaking wildly. Warriors from both sides met along the gunwales with a roar, trying to force their way onto the enemy’s ship to disable them or take it outright. Swords flew as they fought along the decks while others used ropes to swing across the gap to the rigging of their enemy’s ship.

  “There’s Onur!” Sümeya said. She had her own small spyglass.

  Çeda lifted hers and saw him, a giant of a man standing on the quarterdeck of a galleon in the second line of Black Spear ships.

  Movement along the line of Kadri ships caught Çeda’s attention. A lateen-sailed caravel was knifing through Onur’s line. It looked as if it had hoped to fly all the way to Onur’s ship, but the pilot of the carrack ahead of Onur’s ship must have seen its approach. The carrack heeled to starboard, moving to intercept. The two ships crashed hard into one another. The carrack’s stouter struts held while the caravel’s snapped and its prow dropped sharply down into the sand as the sound of their collision rose above the sound of the fires, the shouted orders, and the roar of the soldiers engaged in battle.

  Macide was staring at it, wide-eyed. “The caravel—that’s Emre’s ship.”

  Çeda felt like the deck had just fallen away from underneath her. She turned her spyglass on the caravel and searched desperately for him. “You’re sure?”

  “That’s the Autumn Rose,” he shouted above the battle’s growing din. “Their shaikh, Aríz, rides aboard it, and Emre is advising him. It was probably Emre who suggested attacking Onur’s ship directly.”

  Dear gods.

  The sound of the battle was suddenly faint. The carrack and caravel had come to a sliding halt. As they did, the Black Spear ships behind them slowed and several struck the immobile ships, creating a glut in the center of the Black Spear fleet.

  It was then that more Kadri ships came bursting through the far side, many striking the Black Spear ships head on, creating utter chaos.

  They’re trying to immobilize Onur. To give us a chance to attack him directly.

  Onur was still standing on the deck of his galleon. The pilot had managed to avoid the growing congestion, but now five more Kadri ships were headed straight for it.

  “Emre’s given us a chance to take Onur,” she said to Sümeya and Melis. “Now we just need to reach him.”

  Sümeya was as intense as Çeda had ever seen her. “May the
sun set with the loss of a man over whom no one will weep.”

  Melis took a moment, her resolve hardening. “We’ll stay together until we reach his ship, and then strike for Onur any way we can.”

  “Agreed,” Çeda said.

  Nearby, Salsanna held her hand on Kerim’s shoulder. The plan had been to go with both Kerim and Salsanna, but Kerim wasn’t going anywhere. He was shivering like a newborn pup. He looked terrified.

  “We’ll follow when he’s ready,” Salsanna said. She was smiling beatifically. She bore many visible scars from Kerim’s attack on her—along her neck, her cheeks, her arrowhead chin—and yet she seemed at peace. Whether she truly felt that way, or if it was an act for Çeda, Kerim, or even Salsanna herself, Çeda couldn’t say.

  “Very well,” Çeda said.

  Zaïde’s face was a ghastly shade of white. She had her hand pressed against her chest. She looked as if she wanted nothing more than to join them, but it was clear her heart wasn’t going to allow it. “Go,” she said.

  Melis, Sümeya, and Çeda all nodded, and then they were off. Çeda led them to the port shrouds. They climbed the ratlines to the crosstrees, gripped three of the waiting boarding ropes, and waited as the Amaranth neared a ship on the starboard side. Clay pots arced toward both ships. One crashed into a cluster of warriors on the Amaranth’s foredeck, splashing burning oil over a dozen of them.

  “Now!” Çeda called.

  She swung, aiming for the shrouds. The ships collided. She felt the impact as the Amaranth’s masts swayed violently. Her stomach dropped as she released the rope and flew weightlessly through the hot desert air. She landed hard on the opposite ship’s shroud, but held.

  An arrow blurred through the air below her as Melis and Sümeya landed beside her. More arrows were loosed by bowmen arrayed along the far side of the deck below. As the battle between the ships began in earnest, a Black Spear warrior pointed up at them. “Maidens!”

  Çeda knew from the Night of Endless Swords how overwhelming the sheer number of heartbeats around her could be, but since then she’d learned how to home in on those she cared about. She stripped away those fighting with swords and spears below, stripped away those trying to douse the fires on the deck and in the rigging, and concentrated on the four archers.

  She sensed the tightness in their arms as they pulled the strings back. Sensed the line of aim from the pair who were focused on taking her down like a falcon from the sky. When she felt the moment of their release, she leapt for a stay line that ran at an angle toward the deck. The arrows whizzed by, one tugging on the skirt of her dress as it punctured the heavy cloth.

  She flew along the stay line, her leather gloves buzzing as the rope slid through them ever faster. In one fluid move, she released the rope, drew River’s Daughter, and dropped onto the hatch. It felt like falling into a sea of heartbeats. She gave over to the rhythm of it, the rage and panic of those around her somehow calming her. Pain was building in her right hand—her old wound flaring to life once more. It deepened as she gripped River’s Daughter and by the time she met the swordsman who had come between her and the archers, it felt as though her arm was on fire.

  She gave in to it while blocking high and cutting low. The swordsman fell to the deck, screaming, and she was already past him, slashing with both hands at the archer, who stood wide-eyed with his bow before him as if it might protect him. Her ebon blade cut the bow in two. Before he could recover, she advanced, snapped a kick into his jaw, and sent him flying backward over the side of the ship.

  Men and women warriors, all dressed in desert garb, charged toward her, but she gave them no chance to land a blow. She leapt to the gunwales and followed the archer, somersaulting once before hitting the sand and rolling over one shoulder. She was up in a moment, turning to find Melis flying over the side of the ship behind her. Sümeya was still amidships. She delivered two quick cuts against another of the archers, then a blinding upward blow to the nearest warrior, then leapt in a backward somersault over the side of the ship.

  Çeda turned as something dark loomed on her right.

  Danger, she whistled, north!

  A Black Spear dhow was hurtling toward them, but oblivious to their presence. The dhow’s hull scraped hard against the ship they’d just leapt free of. Çeda, Melis, and Sümeya hurtled past the leading ski, then dove as the rudder scythed through the sand behind them.

  Then they were up and sprinting toward the great clutch of ships locked near the center of the battle. The caravel that had slipped through the Black Spear line, Emre’s ship, was now engulfed in a pitched battle. The Black Spears had numbers, but more and more of Ishaq’s warriors, including Macide himself, were streaming across the sand, ready to lend their support. Kadri warriors were rushing in on foot as well. But the Black Spears were not idle. They recognized the threat and were forming lines, preparing for their enemy’s charge.

  Çeda, Melis, and Sümeya ran ahead, spying for Onur. So many were rushing toward the caravel she thought Onur might be making his way there was well. But then Çeda spotted someone in the crowd making a desperate stand on the caravel’s main deck.

  Gods, it was Emre.

  “There!” Çeda shouted. “We must reach the caravel!”

  Melis and Sümeya ran beside her, but Sümeya pulled her to a halt. “We have a mission, Maiden.”

  “I know”—she thrust a finger at the ship—“but look what he’s done. If we reach Onur, it will be because of the people on that ship. Let’s save them, give them time until the rest of our numbers catch up. It will give us time to locate Onur, to see how he’s arraying his defenses.”

  “But if we go now, he may not have time to array his defenses,” Melis said.

  Sümeya looked between them, clearly unsure.

  The pain in Çeda’s right arm had reached new heights. It felt good. It felt right. It felt as if it knew that battle was near. “I’m not leaving him,” Çeda said, and ran for Emre’s ship.

  Pulling out the shield strapped to her belt, Çeda entered the battle. Melis and Sümeya, thankfully, had decided to join her. With them fighting by her side, they carved through the line of Black Spear soldiers who stood braced across the sand to meet them. They were many, but they were also fearful. Çeda could see it in their stances, in the way they backed away as Çeda neared. She released a high-pitched ululation as she tore deeper through their ranks, pushing ever closer to the caravel, and they slowly gave way.

  Near the ship’s side, Çeda let the power of the petals and the burning in her arm drive her. She leapt, grabbed the side of the ship with her shield hand, and levered herself over the gunwale while parrying a sharp downward blow from a soldier who was waiting for her. He’d badly misjudged how quickly she could gain the deck. With three quick blows the man was down, holding his chest from a deep wound River’s Daughter had carved into his ribs.

  Emre spotted her. He shouted something. Though his words were lost in the clash of steel and the screams of battle, he pointed toward Çeda, and immediately those around him began fighting toward her. The next moments were lost to the rhythmic swings of her ebon blade, the blocking of blows against her small shield.

  As their two groups met, a sense of relief washed over Çeda. It was immediately broken, however, when she spotted the undulating line in the sky off to her right. It was distant still, but closing quickly. A sound, a great bellow, fell across the desert. For a moment the sounds of battle waned. Heads turned to see the brightly colored wyrm slithering eel-like through the sky. Powerful wings bore it steadily closer, the shadows created by its sinuous flight playing against the sunlight filtering through its veined magenta-and-gold skin.

  Çeda, though wrapped in the blanket of the petal’s warmth, felt her mouth go dry. Her stomach sank just to see it flying through the sky, making its way toward one end of the Kadri line of ships, and then descending on it like a servant of death. The Blac
k Spear soldiers shouted triumphantly. Their enemies quaked. Both were dwarfed by the riot of sounds that arose as the wyrm crashed onto the deck of the ship. Breath of the desert, Çeda felt it in her bones. She couldn’t help but wonder if any of them would escape this battle alive.

  “Onur!” Emre yelled, pointing. “If we can reach Onur, we might stop it!”

  There he was. Standing on the deck of the ship Çeda had spotted earlier, holding his fist to the sky. A glittering jewel was held in that hand, she realized, a thing he must be using to control the wyrm.

  As the battle rose up around her, Çeda, Melis, and Sümeya tried to pierce the line, to drive toward Onur, but there were so many warriors pouring over the interlocked ships, slipping over the gunwales to stop the advance of the combined Kadri and Khiyanat lines, that they made no headway.

  Onur, however, was wading toward them. The flame-like gem was gone as he wielded his great spear on the deck of a clipper. His own soldiers gave him a wide berth as soldier after enemy soldier fell before him. He moved with a deadly combination of fluidity and power, so much so that those who stood against him could withstand only one or two blows before falling to his spear or to a punch from his great mailed fist.

  Behind Çeda, Macide had gained the deck. He swung a pair of shamshirs in blinding patterns, pushing back the Black Spear forces. Behind him were Frail Lemi and Hamid and two dozen more.

  Up? Sümeya whistled.

  Affirmative, Çeda whistled back. Now that Emre and the Kadri forces had help, it was time to go for Onur.

  Sheathing River’s Daughter, she leapt and grabbed a boarding line and climbed hand over hand as Melis and Sümeya reached the port-side shrouds.

  As she was nearing the head of the mainsail, she felt something approaching. Something dark, vengeful, and filled with purpose. She turned and saw a black figure bounding over the sand—Kerim, wailing as he approached the edges of the fighting.