by Jack Lovejoy
There were no known ports in the Shadow Islands; it was not even known for certain where the islands lay, or if they existed at all. Shimsham could not be relied on as a navigator—not after Severakh discovered the true nature of his “navigation gear.”
Shimsham had at first kept the mysterious crate he had brought with him securely locked below decks in the hold. But his increasing mellowness throughout each day—by nightfall he was often so mellow that he could hardly talk—and his headachy nervousness each morning became more and more suspicious, until at last Severakh had the crate broken open. It turned out to be packed with nothing but wine flasks.
His first impulse was to have the lot tossed overboard, along with Shimsham himself. But that would have left them without a navigator, on a desperate voyage, and he decided instead to bide his time until others mastered all Shimsham knew—or pretended to know—about navigation to the Shadow Islands. There would be plenty of opportunities later to jettison wine and wine-bibber alike ….
Keen-eyed, with a steady hand and a proper set of claws, Branwe was Shimsham’s prize pupil, although the old wharf skulker began each lesson as if he had already forgotten everything he had said the night before. On some nights his memory was better than on others. Tonight he was in a mood to sentimentalize over old stories—very familiar old stories by now.
Branwe’s years as a potboy had taught him to cope patiently with the situation, although at the Blue Dragon it had been easier to avoid a drunkard’s foul breath being huffed in his face.
“There’s one!” cried Shimsham, his right elbow on the railing as if it were the bar in a tavern, his left arm dangling around Branwe’s neck. “They’re coming out late tonight. First one I’ve seen.”
Branwe had already spotted several of the long-necked marine reptiles; which sometimes followed the ship for miles, as if hoping somebody would fall overboard. They seemed not to possess the magical powers of land reptiles. He tried to ease himself further down the rail.
“Used to try and snatch me from the raft I built to escape the Shadow Islands.” Shimsham was beginning to slur his speech, and would probably fall asleep soon. “Ever tell you the story? I did? Well, that’s all right. I’ll tell it better this time....”
Branwe sighed, and pretended to listen to the tired old story, while his eyes drifted heavenward. The sky was cloudless, and so bright with threefold moonlight that only Zanira and a few other stars of the first magnitude were visible. Faint, distant haloes encircled the moons; at two points their arcs seemed actually to touch.
“Bad sign, lad.” Shimsham startled him. “When moon rings meet, Woe to the fleet.” He quoted the old sailor’s adage, momentarily sobered. “A little over three claws, you say? Better set our course while we’ve got the chance. We’re in for a blow tomorrow. Maybe tonight. I’ll wait right here for you.”
Glancing back, Branwe saw the old rascal slip something out of a nearby coil of rope and lift it to his lips.
The sea was calm; its long swells hardly disturbed the moonlight pointing across its liquid-metal surface like giant fingers. All sails were set to catch the fickle easterly breeze, and the magnificent argosy glided smoothly through the water. Branwe reported the new course to the helmsmrem, who personally helped his crew of four reset the great steering oar and batten it down.
Cajhet was among them, but as Branwe started to address him, he held a finger to his lips and nodded amidships. Severakh had just been summoned up from his cabin, and stood conversing with the lookout, while they peered southward over the port railing. Curious, Branwe followed their eyes.
His first thought was that the dark mass on the horizon was a cloud bank, perhaps the frontal lobe of the storm Shimsham had warned him about. But if it was a cloud bank, it was a very small one. An island? Shimsham had told them about how his raft had at last carried him to an island, where he was picked up by a merchant ship, and allowed to work his passage homeward to Namakhazar. There were variants of the story—one including a romance with a beautiful island she-mrem, another about how he almost married the captain’s daughter, who was also beautiful—but that was its essence.
As Branwe started back across the afterdeck toward Shimsham, he noticed Severakh heading in the same direction. Then Shimsham also noticed him, and quickly bent over the coil of rope again. He was leaning innocently against the railing, a bland smile on his face, by the time the fierce old warrior finally reached him.
“The lookout just reported an island far to the south.”
Severakh looked him suspiciously up and down. “Is that the one you told me about, where you were picked up by the merchant ship?”
“Right smack on course.” Shimsham nodded his head sagely, and hiccupped. “Then why is the island so far south of us?” Severakh demanded.
“I’ve already made tonight’s course correction, sir,” said Branwe. “The steering oar has been reset.”
“Good lad, good lad,” mumbled Shimsham. “I once had eyes like his, and claws too. I’ll never forget when I first was here. I was just Branwe’s age, and a beautiful island shemrem came to my cabin one night—”
“Shut up,” said Severkh. “The only story I want from you now is about the Shadow Islands. And it had better be the truth.”
“Or better than the truth?” Shimsham winked archly at him. “Some stories you have to tell a few times before they start to sound good.” His elbow slipped from the railing, and he staggered and would have fallen, had Branwe not caught him.
“Good lad, good lad,” he mumbled. “Rough seas tonight. ‘When moon rings meet, Woe to the fleet.’ Keep that in mind, and you’ll never regret it.”
“I regret ever laying eyes on you, you scoundrel.” Severakh lowered at him. “But I won’t much longer. You say Branwe here has been making all the course corrections?”
“Used to have eyes like his, and claws too. I was innocent, but they declawed me anyway. A victim of injustice, that’s what I am. But nobody cares.” A sentimental tear glistened in Shimsham’s eye. “Buy me another drink, and I’ll tell you the story. Saddest thing you’ve ever heard.” He staggered, and again Branwe caught him.
Severakh dived past him and pulled a nearly empty flask out of the coiled rope nearby. “That did it! Lieutenant!” he cried over his shoulder. “I need two mrem for a special detail. Branwe, are you confident about how to set our course?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve been doing it every night for the last week.” “Good lad, good lad,” mumbled Shimsham. “My eyes used to be just as sharp, maybe a little sharper even. So were my claws, when I had ‘em. Rank injustice! I was innocent, and always have been.”
“Lieutenant!” Severakh cried impatiently, and started to turn around. He was surprised to find two mrem standing at his elbow. “Cajhet! How many times have I told you not to sneak up on me like that?”
“Several, I believe, sir.”
“Then don’t do it again.”
“No, sir.”
“There’s a big crate down in the hold,” said Severakh.
“This wretch here says it’s filled with his navigation gear. Wipe that grin off your face!”
“Yes, sir,” said Cajhet.
“Over the side with it, and right now. I’ve looked the other way for the last time. Meanwhile I’ll decide what else is going overboard tonight.” He glowered at Shimsham, who began maudlinly to weep and groan and wring his clawless hands. “Now what?”
“A ship, sir,” reported the lookout, running up. “Approaching from the direction of the island.”
“A merchant vessel?”
“No, sir. It’s a galley. Only pirates ever move that fast.” Severakh turned on Shimsham again. “You’ve been telling us you were picked up by honest merchants. It was really a pirate ship, wasn’t it? What else have you withheld, you scoundrel? Were you a pirate yourself? Did you lure us out here for your old pals to rob?”
Shimsham wept and wrung his hands. “I’m a victim of injustice and nobody cares. They made me do it. ‘Be a pirate like us: they said, ‘or it’s back on your raft with you.’ See that reptile out there with the long neck? And there’s another. They were just waiting to gobble me up.”
“They’ve waited long enough!” cried Severak. He seized Shimsham by the scruff of the neck and dragged him to the railing, but then had second thoughts. “Throw him in the brig! Lieutenant, sound quarters! All hands on deck! A single galley against a ship this size? These wretches must think they’re attacking a lot of milk-livered merchants.”
“Shall I ready the catapults, sir?” cried the lieutenant, as a horn sounded and armed mrem poured out on deck, and scurried helter-skelter for their battle stations.
“Not yet,” said Severakh. “This lone galley is in for a surprise, but pirates usually hunt in packs. We don’t want to show them our full strength until we have to. Branwe!”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s the Demon Sword in your hand, isn’t it? Well, whatever magic it possesses, we don’t need it now. These are pirates, not demons, no matter how wild they fight. No sense in risking its being shattered or lost in battle. Take it down to my cabin, and exchange it for one of my own blades.”
By the time Branwe clambered back up on deck, he found the pirate galley racing as if to cut across the bow. Then at the last instant it swerved broadside, and a terrifying shout rose from below, as grappling lines arced by the score over the railing and into the masts and sails aloft.
The agility and savage vigor of the pirates often carried a merchant ship at the first rush. But merchant seamrem were rarely mrem-at-arms; nor were they ever drilled by so exacting a drillmaster as Severakh. Hacking, clawing, shrieking like madmrem, the first wave of swashbucklers poured over the side of the ship—and broke against a rock wall of swords and pikes. The second wave was more tentative, but made no more impression, and fell back amidst a backwash of dead and wounded.
Branwe was at least as agile as any of the grisly ruffians attacking the ship. Some of these, scrambling hand over hand up grappling lines into the masts, bad ideas about taking the defenders in the rear. None succeeded. From shrouds to stays to yardarms, up the masts and down, into the very sails, Branwe scrambled wherever a grapnel took hold. Like all Severakh’s weapons his sword was honed razor sharp; and he slashed through grappling line after grappling line. Cursing and shrieking as they fell, pirate after pirate crashed to the deck below, where they were immediately dispatched and their carcasses pitched over the side. Only twice did Branwe arrive too late to cut away a line, but not too late to cut down the pirates themselves.
Swinging onto the mainsail, he met the first swashbuckling assault with uncanny agility, parrying a barrage of wild and savage blows until he at last found an opening, and the pirate fell screaming to the deck below.
The second contest was more perilous, not so much because this opponent was more skilled—although he was certainly heavier and stronger—but because the footing was becoming increasingly more treacherous. The breeze had freshened, and the huge argosy was beginning to heave in the rising swell. Branwe had to cling to the stays with one hand, while parrying savage hacks and slashes with his sword. His fatal thrust only grazed the pirate’s ribcage, but caused him to lose his footing. The fall broke his neck with a sickening crunch.
There were no more grappling lines to cut, but as Branwe clambered down from the riggings he saw that the pirate galley, though it had already lost half its crew, was still greedy for plunder. It now stood off the port bow, and in the bright moonlight he could see the pirate captain toss a handful of powder into a fire which had just been laid in a pottery urn amidships. Crimson flames shot heavenward, and were soon answered with beacon flares from the island. It was not long before three more galleys were visible, swiftly approaching across the silvery sea.
A heavy sea now. A blanket of storm clouds drew ominously across the eastern moon, and the first galley, its crew decimated, had to struggle against the choppy waters to keep pace with the Zanira, flying full-sail before the wind. The pirates had been unprepared for such stiff resistance and were badly mauled, while Severakh in turn had suffered few casualties. He kept his mrem at their battle stations.
He had anticipated this second assault, but not the storm.
The accuracy of the catapults he had held in reserve would be much reduced. On the other hand, the rough sea would make boarding the Zanira that much more difficult, although the pirates would not be surprised a second time by hard-fought resistance.
He roved continuously from battle station to battle station, inspecting, encouraging, haranguing. Mrem for mrem his troops were more than a match for such undisciplined cutthroats, but they would soon be dangerously outnumbered. The ship would almost certainly be boarded from all sides; even a defensive square would be vulnerable as it never was in land battles, since here it could also be attacked from above.
“Branwe!” He called him aside. “You did good work aloft.
Pick out six or seven of the younger mrem—the most agile you can find, maybe the regular sailors—and take ‘em up with you. I don’t want our lads dropped on or taken from the rear.”
“Yes, sir.” Branwe saluted.
The footing aloft was more treacherous now. The masts bent and groaned; the sails snapped like explosions in the gusting winds; the yardarms swung dizzily back and forth, as if trying to shake loose all those trying to cling to them. That the pirates would attack in such weather proved that they had let their anger get the better of their judgment. There would be no quarter.
As it turned out, there was almost no battle. Severakh did not uncover his catapults until the last of the approaching galleys hove within range. He ordered his catapulters to concentrate their first barrage on the galley struggling to keep alongside, off the port bow. It was the nearest and, because of its decimated crew, the least mobile. Even so, with the deck rocking beneath them, the catapulters were unable to sink it with a dean shot. At last a glancing missile shattered eight of its starboard oars, and it began at once to lag behind the Zanira, flying faster and faster before the wind.
The other three galleys, seeing this, began to zigzag as they raced to surround the great argosy, and not a single catapult missile struck them. Then grapnels began to arc from all directions, while axmrem aboard ship scampered up and down the railing, chopping feverishly to cut away the lines.
But there were too many lines, too many savage pirates clambering up them too agilely, and several of the axmrem themselves were cut down.
Battening their galleys to the sides of the argosy, scores of angry, shrieking pirates poured over the starboard, over the port, over the very bow and stern. It had been many years since so rich a prize had ventured so near their island, and they attacked with greedy abandon, hungry for plunder and vengeance. They were not accustomed to even one of their galleys meeting such fierce resistance.
What they met this time, instead of terrified seamrem throwing down arms they wielded clumsily at best, was a defensive square formed by steady, well-drilled professional soldiers. Mere fury did not avail against such disciplined ranks, nor shrieking, nor the tactics of wild onslaught and terrorism. Slashing swords were parried; leaping swordsmrem hurled back. The blood fury of the pirates at first blinded them to their mounting casualties. Dead and dying littered a deck now slobbered with gore, but still they hurled themselves savagely at the firm ranks of the defenders.
Severakh himself commanded the troop of veterans he held in reserve at the center of the square, leading them in support of whichever side appeared most hard-pressed. Had the pirates united their forces in one concentrated attack, they would certainly have broken the square, overwhelming its ranks from the inside out. But undisciplined fury was all they knew, and a thirst for blood and plunder. Higher and higher mounted their casualties.
&nb
sp; If the pirates found themselves overmatched with weapons on deck, their fabled agility was even less a match for Branwe and his small troupe of sailors in the masts and shrouds, on the yardarms and stays, aloft. The sails continued to snap like explosions in the wildly gusting winds; only a single moon now lit the sky, as black storm clouds flashing with thunderbolts massed out of the east. Higher and higher tossed the storm waves; foam and spindrift pattered down like rain. Grapnels were kicked loose, grappling lines cut away. None who saw young Branwe that night, leaping through space, his sword flashing as he hurled back pirate after pirate, ever forgot his valor.
The battle ended as abruptly as it had begun. The pirates were boldest in attacking the defenseless, and their bloodthirsty greed for plunder at last awakened to the terrible casualties they were suffering. Howling threats and curses, they suddenly broke and ran for their galleys, hurtling themselves over the bulwarks, slashing mooring lines before all their comrades were safely aboard. Several plunged into the sea and were drowned. So swiftly was the Zanira now flying before the wind that the pirate galleys were soon lost from sight.
Now began an even graver battle for those aboard. The dead pirates were tossed overboard, perhaps also a few who were merely stunned or dying, but Severakh saw his new peril too clearly to be nice about the matter. Neither did he have the seventeen pirates who were captured alive—mean, grisly, and treacherous as they looked—chained in the brig, but impressed them at once into his own crew. The storm was their common enemy, and his own casualties had somehow to be replaced if the Zanira was to survive the night.
It did—but just barely. Two mrem fell from the riggings; no fewer than five were washed overboard. The moons were swallowed in blackness; crackling, exploding bolts of electricity, again and again hurtling down out of the boiling storm clouds, were the only light. The mainsail tore loose before it could be reefed, and flapped so violently in the wind that it threatened to tear away the mainmast as well. Once more Branwe was called on to go aloft. Scrambling, clutching, dangling by one hand, sometimes over the ocean, sometimes over the deck, he at last cut the mainsail away, and scrambled back down out of the riggings.
