by Angus Wells
The night was still, the wind that blew steadily throughout the day died away now to no more than a fitful breeze, redolent of the lush vegetation, but far from silent. Shrieks and chatterings rang from the jungle, the challenge of hunting beasts and the cries of their prey; the sea lapped softly about the boat, which creaked and groaned, those sounds seeming the loudest, for all—save, perhaps, Bracht—hoped that they might approach unseen, unheard. The minutes dragged slowly by and then the boat was lowered, Urs and his men slipping silently to their places, Quara and four archers following, the boat filled then, moving to the shore. It returned and Katya swung down, and then Bracht, Calandryll the last. Urs murmured a single word and the oars dipped, carrying the boat away from the larger vessel, toward the shoreline.
The odor of the jungle grew stronger, thick and hot, and all their eyes probed the darkness for sight of canoes or waiting savages.
The scrape of timbers on the narrow strand that flanked the stream rang loud in Calandryll’s ears. He lowered himself over the side and waded to shore, straightsword in hand, feeling sweat run down his ribs, the armor an unpleasant weight across his shoulders, the helmet hot upon his head. Bracht joined him, his blue eyes seeming to gleam with anticipation beneath his helm’s beak. Katya waved them farther up the shore, Quara and the other women flanking them.
Urs and his crew dragged the longboat beneath the shelter of a tall palm and manhandled the barrels clear. He and Katya spoke briefly and then the woman beckoned her party about her, translating her instructions for Calandryll and Bracht.
“Urs and his men will fill the barrels and ferry them back. We press inland. Likely we shall find game using this freshet. Stay close.”
“At your side,” Bracht whispered.
Katya looked to Quara; pointed at the trees. Silently, the Vanu archers drifted into the jungle.
The night grew blacker there, what little light the sky offered dimmed by the overhanging trees, the stream their compass. They moved along its bank, hampered by vines and great roots, thick stands of exotic plant life scenting the air so that sweet perfumes merged with the reek of decay. A game trail crossed their path and they traversed it, seeking to come on the watering place upwind of whatever animals might drink there. It was slow going, the ground beneath their feet spongy, the trees close-spaced and hung with lianas, those decorated with spiders’ webs, the strands sticky and unpleasant to the touch but at last they saw the stream widen to a pool, fed by a spring, the surrounding bamboo cut with trails, the soil around the water bare of vegetation and muddy where hooves and paws had cleared a space. Unbidden, Quara and the others ranged themselves windward of the water. Katya settled beside a tree, Bracht and Calandryll to her left.
Time passed and darkness with it, the patch of sky above becoming grey announcement of impending dawn. A troop of monkeys swung down and drank, scampering back to the safety of the upper branches when a great striped cat padded to the waterside. The regal beast drank in solitary splendor, fading back into the jungle as suddenly as it had come. A long-tusked boar appeared, snorting, two sows behind, and then nine fat deer emerged nervous from the shadows, led by an antlered buck. He sniffed the air, scut twitching, and walked daintily to the pool. His harem followed. Five arrows flew across the water: five deer fell. The herd scattered, the pigs with them, and the jungle was abruptly, ominously, silent.
The Vanu women moved swiftly, splashing through the shallow water to retrieve their shafts and hack lengths of bamboo to which they lashed three of the deer. Bracht and Calandryll sheathed their swords and slung the remaining animals across their shoulders, following Katya down the course of the stream, anxious now to regain the shore, careless of the noise they made in their urgency.
Five deer seemed little enough to feed the numbers of the warboat’s crew, but already the sky brightened, the grey fast fading, glowing with the promise—the threat—of the rising sun, and they moved as swift they could along the stream, unpleasantly aware of the arrows that might greet them were they found by the inhabitants of this hostile land.
They encountered Urs and his men toward the shore, laboring under the weight of filled barrels, and splashed past them to deposit their game in the boat. The sky by now was silvery and the warboat clear upon the sea, a marker to any observers. Urs and his men came with the water and stowed the barrels on board. Three, Katya told them as the longboat made the crossing, were already taken back, and one more trip would see them stocked sufficiently.
“Then we’ve time to hunt again,” Bracht said, grinning as doubt showed on Katya’s face. “Come—there’s no sign of danger and those five deer are scarce enough.”
She thought for a moment, torn between remaining on the shore and the prospect of more meat.
“Urs must fill his casks and return with them,” Bracht urged, “and we must wait for that—we have the chance to take more meat.”
Katya’s wide lips pursed, but then she nodded, speaking with Quara, and the hunting party returned into the jungle. Four pigs rewarded their venture and they found Urs awaiting them, his barrels loaded. The pigs were rapidly tossed into the scuppers and the longboat pushed oft, too heavy laden to carry the archers. They remained on the little strand, arrows nocked, as the sky became blue and the wind rose again, Quara and her women watching the brightening jungle, Katya and the two men the sea. The longboat moved, it felt, with painful slowness. Calandryll felt apprehension mount, staring to north and south, convinced that on the moment dugouts must appear, or arrows fly from the undergrowth. He watched as the dinghy reached the warboat, ropes tossed down to haul the barrels on board, the pigs passed up by hand. It seemed a horribly slow process, measured against the urgent beating of his heart, sweat an irritation on his face, joined now by the insects that swarmed with the burgeoning day. At last the longboat was emptied, turning toward shore, the oars dipping fast; and Bracht cried a warning.
From the south came two dugouts.
From behind came another cry; that and the rush of arrows.
Calandryll turned, sword useless in his hand against the volley of green-fletched shafts that whistled from the undergrowth. A blow knocked air from his lungs and he staggered, seeing a missile drop, blunted on his mail. The Vanu archers returned fire, but blind, their assailants hidden. A second arrow glanced off his helm, the metal protecting him from serious hurt, but ringing with the impact, his head spinning. A woman screamed, falling as a shaft pierced an eye. Quara shouted and the archers fell back, grouping defensively on the shore. Longboat and canoes raced to reach them, the victor unguessable. The dinghy was closer, but only four men manned the sweeps; the dugouts held twenty or thirty oarsmen and sped swifter toward them. He heard Katya mouth a curse, in her own language but its import clear, and Bracht shout again as the arrows ceased and tattooed bodies erupted screaming from the jungle.
The Kern met the onslaught with his own charge. Calandryll was vaguely surprised to find himself at Bracht’s side, unaware that he ran with sword upraised until he saw a black face confront him; and the spear that thrust for his belly.
He twisted in midstride, trapping the lance against his ribs as his blade slashed across the savage face. The man fell and he turned, countering the jagged club that arced at his head with a sweeping, upward cut that near-severed hand from wrist. He brought his sword down across the chest and parried a second spear, skewering his attacker. A blow landed against his back and he tottered forward, dragging his blade loose as he sidestepped, avoiding the viciously spiked mace that swung at his ribs. Three savages rushed him and he retreated before them, seeing one fall to Katya’s saber, another to Bracht’s falchion. The Kern cut the third down and for an instant there was a lull. Calandryll saw a semicircle of tattooed faces, their decoration grotesque, bones clattering about the necks, on wrists and waists. He realized, horrified, that most were human. He risked a backward glance and saw the longboat closing on the shore, the canoes a little farther south. Beyond, the warboat turned, the maneuver ponderous,
the sweeps brining her slowly around landward as archers grouped on the foredeck and between the oarsmen.
Tekkan sought, he saw, to bring the dugouts within bowshot. It was impossible: the canoes would beach before the warboat could reach them, before Urs could land the dinghy. There was no chance of escape and he knew that he was going to die; that soon his bones would hang from a cannibal’s necklace. He felt a strange calm: he had died before, or so he had thought, and suddenly the fact of it seemed immaterial, only the manner important. Perhaps Tekkan would go on to Gessyth, to Tezin-dar, and bring the Arcanum to Vanu. He hoped it might be so.
He raised his sword and shouted and charged headlong into the savage ranks.
Surprise showed then on the barbaric faces, and a kind of grim respect; and pain on some as he cut to right and left, carving a path through them, possessed by berserk fury. He heard a familiar shout and knew that Bracht was at his side, and saw through the flailing clubs and thrusting spears that Katya fought with them. Saw, too, that black-shafted Vanu arrows sprouted from chests and ribs as the archers used their bows. The madness gripped him, dulling the pain of the blows that crashed against his mail shirt and the helm, the straightsword light in his hand and bloodied down all its length. Then Bracht was before him, shouting something, gesturing at the sea, and he felt Katya seize his arm and turn him round, propelling him back toward the ocean.
The longboat floated a little way off, and from the war-boat archers flighted shafts into the cannibal ranks. The tattooed men fell back and Calandryll allowed his comrades to urge him into the water. He clambered over the gunwale, and crouched on a thwart as the others came on board, the boat laden heavy with all their weight, slow as Urs bellowed orders and the sweeps dipped, carrying them toward the dark bulk of the warboat, that turned now, arrows raining on the approaching dugouts.
He saw there was a chance he might live and felt the madness drain away, replaced with fear as hope rose tantalizing. Along the shore the cannibals stood watching, fallen back to the shelter of the jungle. He wondered if he should reach the warboat before the canoes came, or if, at the last, the savages would take the victory. He felt suddenly weary. His head ached now and dull fire throbbed along his ribs and through his sword arm. On the beach he saw three bodies, armored among the black corpses, and felt sorrow that they had died.
The warboat drifted closer. The canoes veered off, seeking to come around beneath the bow, one deterred by the Vanu archers, the other succeeding, hurtling closer, spears and arrows arcing dark against the azure sky. He saw the warboat, black against the blue of sky and sea, a promise of safety, could they but reach it, and the fear rose up, a swelling tide as he realized the dugout must reach them first. He raised a hand: an ineffectual protest. And saw the dugout lifted from the water, savages spilling screaming as it rolled over, a twig blown on a silent wind, buffeted in the soundless gale, driven back toward the shore. That same impossible wind caught the other, men flying helpless in the gusting, the dugout spinning, rushing landward. Tattooed faces bobbed in the water, no longer threatening but terrified now, staring awestruck, then turning to swim desperately to the safety of the land. From the beach came a howling, not challenge but lament, the savages there retreating into the jungle as their fellows dragged themselves ashore and scurried for the trees.
Calandryll smelled almonds on the wind, fading now, as did his fear, leaving only the weariness. He sank back, unaware of whose shoulder pillowed him, and closed his eyes.
They reached the warboat, Urs steering past the sweeps to come around the stern, the welcome bulk between them and the shore, and he was hauled on board, slumping on the deck as Tekkan roared orders and the sweeps reversed, the tiller thrust hard over. The dragon’s head prow turned north again, the little beach left behind them.
Calandryll slipped the latchings of his helm and set it on the planks. He saw that the metal was dented in three places, and when he touched his head—with his left hand, for his right arm was stiff and he could not raise it—he felt painful swellings beneath his hair. His ribs ached and he saw his hands painted dull crimson, blood drying fast in the hot morning air. He began to scrub at them, horrified, less for the lives he had taken than the knowledge that he had slain men without compunction or thought. He closed his eyes, then opened them as his throbbing head spun and he felt a hand on his shoulder. A woman passed him a flask and he drank, gasping as fire coursed his throat. He coughed, and the woman gestured, motioning for him to drink again. This time he sipped and the fire dulled, becoming a pleasant warmth that filled his belly and flowed outward through the tissues of his aching muscles. He felt the pain eased and smiled his thanks, returning the flask. Beside him, Bracht sipped and wiped blood from his face.
“For a moment there I thought us lost,” the freesword said, blue eyes intent on Calandryll, curious and admiring, “But then you … did what you did. Ahrd, but you frightened them!”
He shook his head, not sure what he had done, memory of the battle fading like a dream.
“The spaewife—Ellhyn—spoke of power in you,” Katya murmured, respect in her voice, “and I saw it used before, but I thought us lost then. It is a frightening thing.”
He nodded, too weary to speak, nor knowing what to say; not knowing how he called up such magic, nor much liking that he could, for all it had saved them. It seemed—as Bracht had said, on another boat—that only in direst peril was he able to unleash those forces. He did not want to think about it and began to fumble at the fastenings of his mail, seeing that, like his hands, all splashed with blood.
Bracht came to aid him, unmoved by the carnage, pleased even with the battle, or so it seemed to judge by is cheerful smile.
“Your lessons were well taken,” he grinned. “Ahrd! When you charged them—what possessed you then?”
He shrugged, the answer unknown, and winced as his shoulder throbbed. Bracht eased the mail off and slipped the lacings of the shirt beneath, studying the bruises that purpled on his ribs and back with efficient eye, probing for broken bones, that ministration eliciting a groan of discomfort.
“You’ll heal soon enough,” the Kern said briskly. “A little stiffness for a while, no worse.”
“I fear that Tekkan’s temper will be worse,” Katya remarked, easing out of her own armor. “He will have things to say on the matter.”
Bracht grinned. “But it was a fine fight, was it not? And we filled both the barrels and our larder.”
“We lost three,” she said, sadly. “Three who heed not have died had we returned sooner. I mourn them.”
The Kern’s face grew solemn then and he set a hand on hers.
“That blame lies with me. Had we not returned into the jungle …”
Katya shook her head, gently extricating her hand.
“I heed not have listened to you—their lives were in my charge, not yours.” Her eyes were sad, the grey clouding to stormy darkness. “The fault was mine.”
“I swayed you,” Bracht said. “Do not hold that guilt to yourself alone.”
Katya sighed, resting back against the stepping of the mast, a tired smile fleeting on her lips. “Three were lost,” she murmured, “and I cannot undo that.”
“No,” Bracht said, “and likely more will die before this quest of ours is done—shall you mourn them all? Shall each be a weight on your conscience?”
The grey eyes turned to his face and Katya nodded. “Aye—each one,” she said sadly. “That is the way of Vanu, and as you said to Tekkan—our ways are different. Do you not mourn your fallen in Cuan na’For?”
“We do,” Bracht said, “but we do not carry them with us. A warrior knows that death walks at his shoulder and he—or she!—accepts that dark friend. That is the way of it, and who cannot accept that should not take up a sword.”
A shadow fell between them then and Calandryll looked up to see Tekkan standing over him. The helmsman’s face was flushed with anger and he gestured peremptorily in the direction of the foredeck, snapping somethi
ng in his own language.
“Tekkan would speak with us,” Katya translated. “And what he has to say he prefers be private between us.”
It was an effort to stand, but Calandryll forced himself to rise, following the helmsman to the bow, Bracht and Katya close behind. Tekkan stationed himself by the figurehead, the wind whipping his silvery hair, his eyes hear black with anger, a flush suffusing his tanned cheeks. He spoke in his accented Lyssian, his voice harsh.
“Had you returned with Urs and not gone back into the jungle, Yvra, Tomel, and Ayrtha might still live.”
Katya nodded sadly and said, “Their deaths rest on my shoulders and I grieve for them.”
“To go back was my suggestion,” Bracht said. “Katya would have waited on the shore. Do you have blame to lay, let it be with me.”
Tekkan made an abrupt, dismissive gesture. “Katya led—the fault is hers. This is a thing of Vanu—and we do not risk the lives of comrades without good cause.”
“We sought fresh meat,” Bracht answered, anger straining his voice now.
“Costly meat,” Tekkan snapped. “Paid for in Vanu lives.”
“How could we know the savages would attack?” Calandryll interposed, recognizing the tensing of Bracht’s shoulders and seeking to avoid more open conflict. “It was a risk—yes—but such danger was there from the start.”
“A needless risk.” Tekkan swung to face him, the anger in his eyes startling Calandryll. “We had the deer on board, and they will see us through a while. Had you returned then, none heed have fallen.”
“Perhaps,” Bracht said, “Or perhaps the dugouts might have found us sooner; perhaps the savages attacked us in the jungle and we all fallen there.”
