The Warrior's Tale (The Far Kingdoms, Book 2)

by Allan Cole, Chris Bunch

  I’d suggested this last might be achieved by placing one of the small longboat compasses in the mouth of the leather bag, and, as the spell was being chanted by the four Konyans, I snapped the needle with a fingernail so it spun wildly. One of the Konyans said when we were finished that my addition would likely mean the winds would either blow from all directions at once, or else we’d have a cyclone. I paid him no attention, knowing better.

  As we sailed closer, the Archon’s building storm disappeared, and I was reassured — if he was tracking us magically, he certainly would’ve moved the eye of his storm along with our ships.

  It was midafternoon when we sighted the first of the offshore islands. I’d become my flock of terns once more and scouted ahead of the fleet. I wasn’t in any danger of being discovered, even in this familiar guise, as long as I stayed well away from the main land. Most of the islands’ watching-posts had been abandoned, their men recalled to Ticino after they’d seen our ships sail past in disarray, and those still manned had sentries who were hardly at their most alert. Even so, when we approached another spell was begun.

  We were taking no chances. It was fortunate the day was cloudy, although I’d thought of an alternative incantation if the skies had been clear. On the open deck we set five braziers on high tripods to mark each point of a pentagram. In each brazier we burnt incense we thought pleasing to the Konyan gods of the air, and more important herbs as well, herbs that should bring magical potency whether the gods favored it or not — laurel, mountain star, kalumb root and monkshood.

  In the middle of the pentagram Gamelan had chalked symbols on the deck where I knelt before a low charcoal fire. Different herbs were cast into the fire, dandelion root and plantain among them, and a pot set to boil atop it. When the pot seethed and the steam billowed, I read certain names I’d written down on a scroll, together with a guide to their pronunciation. I didn’t know what language they were in, nor, surprisingly, did Gamelan.

  “This is one of those spells that’ve been handed down from Evocator to Evocator since I do not know when. No one I asked, when it was my time to memorize these words, knew a translation, other than this was a way to call the clouds to cover you, and was mostly used by witches in the farming areas to lessen the effect of a blistering early summer sun on young plants.”

  We’d modified the spell for our own needs, and, as I said the words, stumbling over their arcane pronunciation, I glanced up, and saw, very slowly, very majestically, the clouds coming down to join their fellow, as we’d bidden them. We stopped the ceremony before the fog became so thick we couldn’t see from ship to ship. It would be absurd if the magic intended to conceal so blinded us we rammed and sank each other with no necessity for an enemy.

  Now magic and magicians were transferred to Admiral Bhazana’s flagship. There was no room here on Stryker’s galley, nor would it be the safest place when battle was joined. One Konyan was put in charge of maintaining the fog spell, ordered to chant the words if the fog began dissipating, and the other three set to maintaining the wind conjuration.

  Gamelan wondered if they were to be depended on, and thought perhaps he should stay with them. A trace of his former bitterness showed when he said, “at least an old man like me wouldn’t get in anyone’s way over there.”

  I was about to retort, but Pamphylia was quicker: “Why sir,” she said pertly, “you must be with us during the landing. I mean someone has to be in the vanguard who’s capable of raping as they say all soldiers must.”

  Gamelan snorted, but his good humor came back.

  * * * *

  Xia was in our cabin when I entered. It was time for me to put on my battle harness. Xia wore the uniform of the Maranon Guard, had her armor nearby, and sat on her clothes-chest, looking at the bare sword she’d trained with so hard as if she’d never seen it before.

  “Princess,” I began, speaking formally since what I was going to say was an order, not a request and not from a lover, or at least I hoped I’d reached my decision using logic, not love. “When we go into battle — ”

  Xia interrupted, “When we go into battle, I shall be beside you, Captain.”

  I stopped. I’d figured she’d object to what I was going to tell her — to transfer to Admiral Bhazana’s galley, or at the very least remain aboard Stryker’s ship when we landed in Ticino, and had a response ready for that. But she’d slipped the mat from under me by using my title, just as I’d attempted to start the discussion on more formal ground by doing the same.

  “No Kanara has ever fought a battle from the safety of their tent. I shall not shame that tradition,” she said.

  “All right,” I said. “That’s quite admirable. Princess. But you are the last Kanara. What if . . . ”

  “Then my father will have to legitimize one or another of his bastards and possibly even marry one of his concubines,” she said. “And those weak-bellied sons of his lust’ll bring the family heritage crashing down in ten years.

  “But what of it,” she said. “I care little about what happened before I was born, unless it affects me, and less about what happens after my death.

  “For all I know . . . or care . . . when I am taken by the one you call the Seeker this whole world will flicker and die out like a blown-out candle. Perhaps all of this has been put here just for my amusement.”

  I was about to say something at this piece of rather incredible arrogance when I saw she was hiding a grin and there was a wicked glint to her eye.

  She laid the sword down on the deck and stood. “There is another tradition in my family,” she said, her voice husky as she came to me. I was wearing only boots, a loose open-necked tunic that ended at mid-thigh and my own weapons belt. That fell to the deck with a thud, and her hands were on my shoulders, pulling my tunic down to my waist as my nipples rose, and then it, too, was on the deck and she lifted me in her arms and laid me atop it.

  Xia never undressed, but took me as a warrior might take a maiden given him as a war-prize. Her lips and fingers were everywhere, caressing, stroking, then forcing, and I was thrashing, feeling the deck timbers scrape on my back, trying to keep from crying aloud as she sent me soaring high, higher even than my magic.

  Eventually, in a day, a week or a year, I came back, to see Xia lying on her side next to me, running a fingernail gently across my skin.

  “A delightful tradition,” I managed. “One I think the Anteros should adopt.”

  I forced energy, and turned toward her, but she shook her head.

  “After the battle, my Rali. After we’ve destroyed them. Then there’ll be time and more for love.”

  * * * *

  At full dark, our ships slid past the portal cities. None of the ships showed lights, nor did I hear any shouts from any vessel as we slid along. I wished this had been the way it was two days earlier. There would now be several thousand men still breathing and dreaming of their homes and glory, instead of rotting silent corpses rolled along the ocean floor by the tides.

  We’d arranged the order of battle before entering the gut. Now those half-wrecked hulks manned by Nor’s Broken Men and other volunteers were in the vanguard. Our seven galleys were just behind, sailing in close company with Captain Yezo’s five Konyan ships. Astern was Admiral Bhazana’s flagship and the rest of the fleet. I’d made no suggestions, issued no orders other than his ships were to close with and destroy any enemy they encountered. I assumed, or at least hoped, the division and ship captains were competent at ordering their own formations. I said it’d be unlikely they’d face the same problems with the enemy evading close battle during this night engagement as they’d had earlier, since we would hopefully have the surprise as an ally.

  Finally, I ordered that no ship was to withdraw from battle unless specifically ordered by me and no one else, and that a great spell had been cast to send sea demons up to destroy any ship or sailor who disobeyed.

  Not wanting to end my orders with such a lie, I’d thought for a moment, then scribbled, “No man who se
ts his course toward the sound of battle this night can do wrong. The Gods strike for Konya!”

  Then there was nothing for me to do for a long while except wait and pray we weren’t discovered.

  Corais was beside me in the forepeak. We watched the lights of the portal cities fade behind us as we sailed on toward Ticino. I turned away, to go back to the quarterdeck. She put a hand out to stop me.

  “When you are back in Orissa,” she said, “on the first day of summer, would you authorize a tournament of archers in my name? And let it be open to all, especially girls who might be drawn to join the Guard?”

  I began to say something, then found other words. “I will,” I said. “And you’ll be the main judge, and make the sacrifice to Maranonia.”

  “Make it of the early summer flowers. Roses, wisterias, lilacs and such,” she said. “Shed no blood in my name.”

  “Very well,” I said. “But there’s one condition — you’ll have to keep your hands off the archers, at least until their mothers have their backs turned.”

  Corais smiled, and her fingers touched the bit of The Sarzana’s robe tied around her upper arm.

  “I thank you,” she said, but no more.

  * * * *

  Ticino glimmered through the night and haze. Now I’d find out if my strategy would work. My main concerns hadn’t been its potential, but whether our attack had been magically discovered, and a trap laid for us, plus, of course, the larger worry about whether the Konyans would fight or flee again.

  I’d ordered the immediate return to The Sarzana’s stronghold not from rage, nor to justify the old saw that a thrown horseman, if he ever wishes to ride without fear must remount, but because I knew soldiers. After a victory, particularly a victory as smashingly one-sided as theirs, celebration is in order. Soldiers wish to drink, eat, couple, reaffirm their hold on the world of the living.

  Ideally we should’ve counterattacked the same night we’d been driven out, but that’d been clearly impossible. But when I reflected further, remembering how some of my post-battle hangovers had lingered, even when I’d soddenly attempted to drink them away, attacking The Sarzana on the second day might mean his forces were even less capable. We would know in bare moments.

  I could see the outline of the anchored Konyan ships against the bright lights of Ticino. I could hear the shouts of celebrants, the clashing music of military marches and drinking songs, and see the flare of torches on gondolas as they wove through the canals that were Ticino’s thoroughfares. There were but few lights in the harbor, not even the masthead truck lights most ships set when anchored.

  I gave an order, and Sergeant Ismet opened the shutter of her bullseye lantern in the long, short, long signal I’d arranged. The Evocators on Bhazana’s ship should be obeying and increasing their chants. I felt the wind from the stern freshen, and Gamelan, who was standing beside me, said, “At least they can follow orders. So far, anyway.”

  “They’d better,” Polillo gritted. “Or I’ll learn magic and cast some sort of spell that’ll make what little remains of their cocks shrivel and fall off.”

  She looked at Corais, expecting some rejoinder, but all she got was a wan smile and silence. Polillo looked concerned, then shrugged and went forward to her station at the catapults.

  Our sails filled, and Duban hissed orders to set a reef — the wind was intended to help other, slower craft. It did — the large mainsails on the hulks ahead filled, and the ships groaned as they were forced to speed. Tiny white wavelets appeared beside their bluff bows as they went forward. Captain Yezo’s ships also wallowed past at their full speed, their duties to begin before ours.

  Thus far my strategy was working perfectly, and I began to worry, remembering the old adage that if your battleplan goes off without a hitch, you’re walking into an ambush. A signal light flashed from an enemy picketboat, and a challenge shouted. Seconds later the first of Yezo’s ships smashed into the tiny craft, and sent its splintered fragments to the bottom. Men’s screams drowned as the sea took them. Torches flamed on the Konyan hulks as my plan continued.

  These crippled ships were sacrifices, fireships, and as we’d sailed back toward Ticino they’d been loaded with flammables — oil barrels lashed to masts, other barrels below decks with old wax-drenched sails and tarred rigging to feed the flames. When the Konyan sorcerers had fed the wind, Nor’s Broken Men and other volunteers aboard the hulks, had smashed in the tops of the casks and lit fires.

  Flame roared into the night, and I heard screams and shouts as watches on The Sarzana’s ships came out of their stupor. In the red and yellow flames men were outlined on the fireships as they flung their torches into the flammable deck cargo, and then the maindecks engulfed, ran for escape, the longboats towed behind each hulk. On one ship, they didn’t run fast enough, and the fire reached out and took them, screaming, into its embrace. The fireships were glowing like paper lanterns as they bore down on the anchored enemy.

  The roadstead was chaos as The Sarzana’s sailors tumbled on deck, fuddled by sleep or drink. I imagined the poor bastards trying to decide what to do, which of the many screamed orders to obey. Here and there alert seaman axed mooring lines as the fireships closed, and the wind caught those ships and sent them drifting out of control down on their sisters. One of The Sarzana’s galleys wasn’t able to float free in time, and a fireship rammed it. Flames roared across to the other ship, and the great torch screamed up at the heavens. Another and then a third of The Sarzana’s galleys gouted into firestorms.

  Behind us I heard thuds and crashes, as the few war machines on the Konyan ships began launching missiles. They were still at too great a range, and waterspouts rose from the dark waters like deadly plants. Then one and another boulder smashed home against the decks of The Sarzana’s ships. Firearrows arced out over the night sky, and here and there more flames flickered on enemy decks.

  The lead Konyan ship smashed into an enemy, and grapnels went across and the storming parties, shouting for blood, swarmed over the bulwarks. Another ship laid alongside it, and a third at its stern. Even these cumbersome Konyan galleys could learn the tactics we’d devised, and worry their prey like packs of hunting beasts.

  Our own mast-slashing catapults were firing, on our galley and the other Orissan ships. The masts of The Sarzana’s ships were easy targets, outlined black against the flames. But it didn’t matter whether or not my bolts struck true or went on to crash into the city itself — they, like everything else, were intended only to wreak havoc and bring confusion. But from the happy yips and shouts from the foredeck, Polillo was thoroughly enjoying herself, after that long day earlier of inaction and defeat.

  We had the greatest weapon of all on our side, surprise, and I intended to keep it. All this was diversion for my attack against The Archon. But I had one task before I could go for the kill. Closer to shore lay the turtleships. They were crewed by more elite or sober seamen, because almost half of them had their oars out, had slipped their moorings, and were underway.

  I took the small model of the turtleship Santh had carved so carefully from its box, that I’d treated with a spell and touched with the broadhead of an enemy arrow, to ensure it “knew” its larger brothers and would seek them out. I set the model in a water-filled pan, not so much to further the emulation, but to prevent firing our own ship. I unstopped a vial and dripped lantern oil onto the little ship:

  Oil take life

  Oil must grow

  Oil take wing

  Oil take fire

  I touched a splinter of wood to the illuminating fire in the binnacle until it flickered into life, then held it against the oil-soaked model.

  Now you are fire

  Now you have power

  You are strong against the night

  You end the night

  None can stand

  All must fall

  Reach out and take

  All like all

  And all is meat

  Fire reach out

  T
he turtleships exploded. I thought grimly that The Archon’s weapon I’d first glimpsed in the sea of volcanoes had now flowered, and turned back on him. All the turtleships were caught by my spell, and seared into ruin. The armor plating that’d made them arrow-proof now was a trap. I saw very few sailors scramble out of the ships’ hatches before they charred to the waterline, rolled and went under, the magical fire burning them faster than any earthly flame could’ve.

  The harbor was as light as full day. City lights were blazing on, as Ticino stumbled back to alertness, but I didn’t have time to worry about that, as I began yet another spell. I didn’t think this was necessary, but the Konyans had broken once before at an illusion, and I had no intention of losing this battle if that conjuration was used again.

  Gamelan had a brazier ready, and onto it I sprinkled, among other dried herbs, wort and rue against sorcery and rosemary as an guardian against death.

  Eyes, see!

  Eyes unblinded

  See what is

  See what is

  See the truth

  See through the veil

  See beyond the mist

  Eyes unfooled

  The tiny cloud of smoke grew and grew, and spread behind us, across the Konyan ships, and then vanished. I’d warned Admiral Bhazana of my incantation to keep the living-dead illusion from taking effect, and instructed him to tell his sailors not to take alarm, but even so I heard shouts of fear, and a couple of ships veered from their course. I swore, but had no time for that, either, because Captain Yezo’s five ships were closing on their targets. Those were the five seagates from the ocean into Ticino’s canals, normally kept closed to lessen the tide’s effect. I saw soldiers running onto the waterfront in fighting order and showering the ships with arrows and spears. But it was far too late.