The Forsaken had been warned about the wyrm’s terrible breath. The first of the asirim, who had once been Salsanna, lifted her hand, and a gout of sand lifted from the desert around the ship. It swirled upward, toward the wyrm, and struck as the beast drew breath, blasting its eyes and open maw.
The wyrm swung its head back and forth, the stream of its deadly black spray fouled by its instinctive reaction to protect against the sand that scoured its mouth and throat.
Çeda, Ishaq, Melis, and Sümeya retreated from the foredeck as the wyrm landed with a crash. The Forsaken stormed forward, clambered the masts and rigging, and their white forms swarmed over the wyrm, clawing its fine scales, tearing its skin, ripping the translucent skin of its long wings.
The wyrm clamped its massive jaws over one, bashed another aside as it swung its head around. A fine spray of black liquid issued from its mouth with a strange, rumbling roar. Two of the Forsaken were caught in it. Their white raiment blackened and smoked; their flesh liquefied, yet still they drove their knives into the wyrm’s flesh, tearing wide, gaping holes. Blood streamed from those wounds, steaming where it hit the foredeck.
The enemy ships were nearing. Çeda heard something loud clank beneath the ship and then a thud resounded through the decking. Suddenly the ship was leaning starboard and turning in that direction.
Just as she was bringing her ebon blade down against the wyrm’s front leg, she saw something dark and massive looming off the port side. Her mind told her to brace, but it was too late. The prow of a ship crashed into theirs, sending her flying. She lost her sword as she was thrown along the body of the wyrm and over the port bow. She struck something that burned her left side, and then she was down, sliding against the deck of the other ship.
She pulled her knife and twisted, slamming the point into the deck. It bit, scraping against the decking, slowing her down, but not enough. She slammed into something hard, then fell to the main deck of the ship that had struck hers.
Suddenly she was among the enemy. Fighting, slashing with her knife, trying to hold them off as she looked for her sword. She saw it near the pilot’s wheel, and fought her way toward it.
She reached it at last, and was up again, swinging River’s Daughter in vicious arcs.
Among the clashing, she heard a whistle. To me!
It was Sümeya. She was surrounded and barely holding her own.
Çeda charged across the deck, screaming “Lai, lai, lai!” as she went, and fell among the Black Spear soldiers. As Sümeya’s attackers retreated, the two of them stood back-to-back. She tried to locate Melis, but couldn’t. She worried she’d been thrown to the sand, or worse, that she lay dead on the deck of one of the ships.
She and Sümeya fought fiercely, helping one another time and time again. But Çeda knew that the longer they fought, the worse this was for the desert tribes. They were playing into the Kings’ hands.
Up! Çeda whistled.
And Sümeya took her meaning. Together, they fought away their attackers, of which there were thankfully few. The crash between ships hadn’t been planned, and many now lay stunned, wounded, or unconscious.
They made their way up along the shrouds as, only ten paces distant, the wyrm continued to thrash, half its sinuous body on the Black Spear ship, half on the Amaranth. The Forsaken still fought it, but many were gone or lay unmoving on the deck or the sand. As the wyrm roared once more, Çeda scanned the ships, many of which had come to a stop.
They were surrounded by chaos. Ships sailing on, curving around for another pass. Others halted, some crashed into one another, their skis locked or their sails and booms caught up in the other’s rigging. There were clusters of fighting all around. Any plan of attack had been forgotten as men and women from both sides fought with wild abandon.
A whistle came, not from Sümeya, but from the sand below. Melis was there, limping, her sword pointing south. Çeda swung her gaze in that direction and saw what Melis had: a ship, a three-masted schooner, with something massive standing on its deck. It was hard to get a gauge on it, as distant as it was, but it was easily twice the size of a man and was tearing at the ship’s deck, ripping up boards and flinging them away as arrows came biting in from all directions.
“Onur is there,” Çeda said.
“So is the ehrekh,” Sümeya replied.
Çeda shrugged and grabbed a rigging line. “So it is,” she said, knowing that everything Ramahd had said was true. The ehrekh, Guhldrathen, had come for Hamzakiir, who was surely on the very same ship, and it had been lured by Çeda’s own blood. Her throat tightened at the thought of what it would do when it had finished with Hamzakiir.
It demanded your blood, Ramahd had said.
Bakhi’s bright hammer, the strength of the thing. It was deeper into the ship, killing any foolish enough to come near. But what is there to do about it? Çeda thought. If the lord of all things has come for me, so be it.
She slid along the rigging line, somersaulting as she neared the ship’s edge and rolling on the sand to break her fall. With the roar of battle still spreading around them, Sümeya landed next to her. Melis approached, limping, but seemed ready as ever to swing a sword. Before Çeda could take another step, Sümeya grabbed Çeda’s arm and turned her around. “There’s no need for you to go nearer a beast such as that, not when we know it thirsts for your blood. Remain with your tribe. Let me and Melis find Onur.”
Çeda motioned toward the distant ship. “Look at it, Sümeya. If it finishes with Hamzakiir it will surely come for me, and there’s nothing we can do about that. But we might take Onur. We can kill him for all he’s done to Zaïde and a thousand others in his time walking the desert.”
Sümeya hesitated, but Çeda refused to wait. She began running toward the ship where the ehrekh had clawed its way to the deck below. Without looking, the beast lashed its tails at a woman who was charging with a spear held high in both hands. One tail batted the spear aside while the other caught her across the throat. She was thrown over the far side of the ship as Guhldrathen tore a massive beam from the deck. It was as large as a skiff, but the ehrekh launched it into the air toward a group of Black Spear archers as if it were kindling. The archers were crushed, and the ehrekh dropped down into the hole it had created. Much of it was lost from view as it tore deeper and deeper into the ship like a bone crusher tearing into a hapless hare’s den.
In that moment, the shutters of the captain’s cabin at the rear of the ship were thrown wide. An ornate spear was tossed down to the sand, and Onur’s bulky frame levered itself out to fall unceremoniously to the sand, landing just beside the spear. Using the spear to support himself, Onur propped himself up. He looked as though he were drunk as he lumbered forward, looking wild-eyed over his shoulder at the ship he’d just escaped.
A moment later, he pulled up as he spotted Çeda, Melis, and Sümeya. He had his spear at the ready, but appeared so weak he could hardly hold it.
Behind him, another form dropped from the same cabin window. He sprinted after Onur, but then pulled up as he saw Çeda and the others. It was Hamzakiir, Çeda realized. Blood ran from a cut on his forehead and stained his golden clothes. Like Onur, he seemed concerned by the sudden presence of a trio of Blade Maidens standing before him, but before he could speak a great roar came from behind him.
Hamzakiir turned, petrified, as the ehrekh lifted itself from the hole it had torn in the ship and leapt down to the sand. With his landing came a deep booming sound that rose above the chaos of the battle. Çeda felt it in her chest. The ehrekh charged straight for Hamzakiir. The blood mage ran, his eyes crazed with fear.
“Save me!” he called to Onur, stumbling toward him.
Onur looked as if he were considering it, but as Hamzakiir came close, he brought the butt of his spear up in a sharp cross-strike to the side of Hamzakiir’s head. As Hamzakiir fell, stunned, Onur backed away as if a leper lay before him.
<
br /> Hamzakiir reached his knees, clasped his hands, and stared at the sky. “Tulathan, save me!”
But the silver goddess was deaf to his pleas. The ebony-skinned beast fell upon him and lifted him into the air. The pair of them looked like a mirage, a twisted reflection of father and child. Hamzakiir screamed, arms flailing, legs kicking against the beast’s face and horns as the ehrekh’s thumbs drove into the center of his chest. Hamzakiir’s rib cage was pierced and torn wide. The glistening ropes of his intestines spilled to the sand, while other viscera shook within the rapidly widening cavity. A moment later, Hamzakiir’s screams were cut short, though his limbs continued to quiver like a man stricken with palsy.
“Now take her!” Onur bellowed at the beast. He was pointing his spear at Çeda. “Take her, Guhldrathen, as was promised!”
Chapter 63
BRAMA SAT IN THE CENTER of a skiff as it flew across the sand. The mast and sail were laid down, still held in their clamps. The sails would not be needed. They were only going to have one chance at this.
Brama held a bow in one hand. The quiver, resting in the crook where hull met thwart, bristled with arrows, though he doubted he’d have time to loose more than one. And in any case his responsibility lay not in his skill with a bow, which was moderate at best, but in the two items on the boards between his feet. At first glance it looked like a single mound of rope, but closer examination revealed two separate implements: one, a coil of thick silk rope, to one end of which was tied a triple-hooked iron grapnel. The second, lying beneath, was a boarding net woven like a ship’s shroud with small hooks secured along one side.
Emre was at the front, one knee on the forward thwart, holding an axe. The wind whipped the free strands of his long, braided hair. Ramahd sat at the tiller, guiding them as they trailed the two large ships that towered ahead of them—the Kadri ship, Autumn Rose, and the Errant, Macide’s ship.
The wind was gusting, and the sails of both ships were full. The ships sailed so near one another it looked as though their hulls would strike, or that their sails and rigging would get caught, but their pilots were masterful. They worked the wheels, guiding the ships carefully over the sand as they sped toward the dark line of navy ships ahead.
A thick rope hawser was looped through a hook at the front of the skiff. The hawser trailed ahead of the skiff, up and over the gunwales of both the Autumn Rose and the Errant. The hawser’s ends were looped around each ship’s foremast, effectively towing the skiff along the sands while at the same time—because the ships sailed so close to one another—hiding them from view. It was necessary. If the Kings’ crew worked out what they were about to do, their gambit would be over before it began.
A horn blew on the Errant, a sound as bright as the sunrise. It was a call to all the ships trailing behind to prepare for battle, but also a signal for the skiff to be ready.
Emre pointed across the bow. “Steady now. Watch the rise there.”
“I see it.” Ramahd adjusted the skiff’s course to avoid the steep dip along windward side of the misshapen dune.
Beyond the Rose and the Errant, the Kings’ ships were only a quarter-league away. Then an eighth-league. And still the Kings’ ships held their course. Brama’s heart was beating like a racing akhala’s when another horn finally blew, loud and long and clear.
The Rose and the Errant immediately adjusted course, their lines diverging. The trailing ships began to drift into two separate columns as well—a gambit to confuse the Kings’ ships and mask what was about to happen. As the hulls of the Rose and Errant drifted farther and farther apart, the hawser was drawn tighter, and the skiff accelerated, adding to its already considerable speed.
Faster and faster it went, the wind whipping Brama’s hair against his face. The ride became bumpier as Ramahd guided them steadily over the sand.
Bells rang on the Kings’ massive galleons, looming ahead. They adjusted course as well. Flame pots flew from both lines of ships, arching across a robin’s egg sky. Imperfect lines of black smoke trailed behind. Arrows flew. Countless dark, fletched shafts streaked between the ships. They looked like the swarms of insects that plagued the Haddah in the thick of spring.
The hawser drew tighter and tighter. Emre raised his axe, preparing to bring it down at just the right moment. But gods, dead ahead, one of the Kings’ galleons, having realized the path between the Rose and the Errant was the only way to avoid a collision with either ship, was now hurtling directly toward them. A Maiden stood near the galleon’s bowsprit. Brama thought he heard a series of sharp whistles, at which point two more Maidens joined her, each bearing a bow with arrow nocked.
The hawser went tight. Brama heard a creaking sound as it stretched and the front of the skiff lifted from the sand. With a sharp grunt, Emre brought the axe down. By then the skiff was moving so fast Brama was certain they’d turn and tip and be flung free. But Ramahd guided them with uncanny instincts between the oncoming galleon’s long skimwood skis.
Brama loosed an arrow at the Maidens, managing nothing more than making the one who’d whistled twist from its path. The other two drew their bowstrings and let fly. One arrow grazed Brama’s thigh and thudded into the skiff’s hull. The other flew just past his head.
As the pain in his leg began to register, he heard a grunt behind him. He turned to see Ramahd’s right forearm shot straight through, pinning him to the tiller itself. His left arm was looped through a heavy shield he was holding at the ready, but the Maiden’s aim had been sure enough to slip past the shield’s edge. Brama tried to reach for the arrow, but abandoned the plan when Ramahd growled, “Leave it!” his eyes fixed determinedly ahead. “Just get the bloody grapnel ready!”
Before the Maidens could shoot again, the skiff hurtled beneath the galleon’s hull. Emre, Brama, and Ramahd all ducked to avoid having their heads clipped by the ship’s keel. The sound of battle dimmed, replaced by the sharp hissing of the galleon’s great skis. The rudder clipped the rear of the skiff, jolting them, but then they were flying out onto open sand once more.
Brama handed Emre the bow and took up the grapnel. They were headed straight for the capital ship behind the lines now. King Kiral’s ship. The ship where Queen Meryam was hiding and where, Brama was certain, Rümayesh’s sapphire hung around her neck.
Brama marveled at Emre’s skill with a bow. The man was a wizard. He’d taken up four arrows between the knuckles of his right hand. As the three Maidens reappeared at the ship’s stern behind them, he released one then another and another, all four flying in such tight sequence the Maidens hardly had time to duck before the next was on them. He appeared to catch one in the neck with the fourth arrow. She dropped from sight and wasn’t seen again. The other two, however, lifted their bows and aimed while Emre grabbed more arrows.
Ramahd had lifted the heavy shield onto the thwart and ducked behind it. Just in time. Two arrows crashed into it. Both would have taken him in the back. His right arm, the arrow still driven through the meat, was bleeding badly now. “It’ll come fast,” he said through gritted teeth, his gaze guiding Brama to the Kings’ galleon ahead.
Indeed, despite losing some speed, they were still hurtling forward. The galleon was adjusting course, perhaps trying to avoid the skiff. But Ramahd adjusted right along with them. Brama stood. He let the rope out and began spinning the grapnel. A dozen Silver Spears stood along the galleon’s starboard side, most with bows at the ready. Emre loosed a volley of arrows, all four striking home. Then the Spears let fly.
Amid streaking arrows, Brama saw a wisp of a woman in a rusty red dress standing by the Kings’ soldiers. Queen Meryam. She was staring at the skiff with eyes that glinted in the sunken hollows of her face. “You shouldn’t have come, brother!” she shouted.
Ramahd ignored her as the galleon adjusted course so that its starboard ski headed straight for them. The ship’s captain was hoping the ship itself could do the work of the Silver Sp
ears for them. But Ramahd, grimacing, his breath coming in sharp huffs, pushed at the tiller until they were running alongside the galleon again. As the Spears, and now a pair of Maidens, fired straight down at them, Brama spun the grapnel one last time and flung it toward the rearmost shroud.
“It’s caught!” Brama called. “Turn, turn, turn!”
Ramahd swung wide, then brought the line of the skiff about, curving them around so that they came nearer and nearer to the galleon’s line of sail. The rope coiled out, then snapped tight. The skiff curved around the galleon’s stern. The rope creaked, and Meryam appeared at the aft gunwales, her hand lifted high, and launched a ball of bright fire at the skiff. It flew straight for them, but as it neared, it diminished and flew off course, striking the sand to their starboard side.
A thundering boom accompanied a geyser of sand lifting high into the air, but Brama was paying more attention to Ramahd. His free left hand was lifted, palm facing outward. Sweat had gathered on his brow. He’d said he could protect them from Meryam, but Brama hadn’t really believed him until now.
Another tight ball of fire came streaking in, but it was off target. The skiff was moving so swiftly it swung around to the galleon’s port side. From there, Brama and Emre both hurled the net up and across the gunwales. Quickly, they leapt upon it, then turned to help Ramahd.
Abandoning the tiller, Ramahd snapped the arrow and yanked his arm free. Just as the skiff was beginning to pull away, he leapt across the gunwale to land on the lower portion of the net. He groaned, and his left arm slipped free, but Brama held him tight by his shirt until he could begin climbing, right behind Emre and Brama.
Brama and Emre reached the quarterdeck a moment later and engaged the squad of Silver Spears who met them, but Brama was already on the lookout for Meryam. Everything depended on her. Or rather, on his ability to take the sapphire from her.
He could feel her somewhere forward. Behind him, Ramahd reached the deck. The three of them fought viciously, keeping the Silver Spears away, but then several of the Spears retreated, making room for the Blade Maidens in their black battle dresses.
A Veil of Spears Page 61
