Shadowfall

by James Clemens

  Rogger spoke as he reentered the cabin. “Because it is not pure blood that runs a Fin. It’s an alchemical mixture. A blend of humours known to those trained in their manipulations. And as I recall, alchemists live very short lives. Blown up by their own miscalculations.”

  Delia dismissed his concern. “The mica tubing still contains residual alchemy, the last dregs. All we need is a bit of fresh blood to ignite the Grace inside the mekanicals for a brief time. Enough to flee out of reach. It’ll take just a little blood.”

  “A little?” Rogger repeated. “We’ve had this discussion already. If you’re wrong . . . if the explosion doesn’t kill us all, any fiery blast will draw the corsairs down upon us.”

  “They’re already upon us, if you hadn’t noticed.” Delia cocked a thumb toward the window.

  Tylar glanced from the lamplit sails back to the open cylinder. She did make a good argument. But it was his blood that would slay them if the works exploded. He found himself staring at his hands, unsure. Was it any better to take their chances with Darjon’s corsairs? He had only to think of Captain Grayl to know how his companions would fare. He pictured Delia and Rogger swinging from their necks.

  He would not let that happen.

  Earlier, Tylar had hoped the corsairs would dock at Tangle Reef and remain unaware of their presence, giving time for the current to drift them out of harm’s reach. Yet even that choice had its own difficulties. Adrift at sea—no food, little water—was only a slower form of death. But something had sent the corsairs searching wider. With Fyla distracted by the Gloom, word must have reached Darjon: The godslayer was loose.

  Now, as the corsairs bore down on them, hard choices had to be made.

  Tylar held out his hand to Rogger. “Your dagger.”

  The thief backed up a step, the only space left to him. “You’re both as bad as blood witches . . . fooling with Grace that you know nothing about.”

  Delia snapped at him. “I’m a Hand, not a skagging witch.”

  Rogger lifted a brow at her cursing.

  Tylar noted how tired she looked . . . and young. It was easy to forget. She had lost her god, seen her life turned inside out, and for what? To be hunted. He recognized the exhausted fear in her eyes, a haunting desperation.

  He continued to hold his palm up toward Rogger. He had his own sword sheathed at his belt, but the long weapon was unwieldy in the cramped space, ungainly for the work needed here.

  Finally, the thief slipped a tiny steel dagger from a sheath at the small of his back and placed it in Tylar’s palm.

  This calmed Delia. She nodded, wiping back a stray lock of hair from her eyes. “We’ll just try with a few drops. See how the mekanicals hold.”

  Tylar moved next to her. “Do I need to concentrate? Direct some will into the blood?” He thought back to the curse of ice he cast upon the jelly shark.

  “No,” Delia said after a moment’s hesitation, sounding unsure. “Raw Grace is needed here, pure force.”

  Tylar poised the dagger across his palm.

  “Let me,” Delia said softly, touching his hand. “It is my duty.”

  Tylar opened his fingers gladly.

  She took the knife and, with her other hand, turned his palm down, then up again, seeming to study the length of his fingers, the hairs along the back of his hand, the architecture of his bones. Finally, she pointed the tip of the blade at a ropy vein on the side of his wrist. Her other hand latched above it, causing the vessel to bulge. “Hold steady.”

  Tylar was surprised by the iron hold of her fingers. She had wicked strength. Her middle finger dug into a painful point behind a wristbone.

  “Take a deep breath.”

  He’d just begun to suck in air when she stabbed the dagger’s tip into the vein. Caught by surprise, he coughed with the bite of the knife—but there was no pain. She pressed her thumb over the wound before it even bled and stepped back, passing the knife back to Rogger.

  Delia drew him by the arm to the glass sphere. She positioned the wound over the hole in the tank and released her thumb.

  Blood flowed thickly down the inside of the glass.

  Tylar watched. With the release of Delia’s fingers, he felt a dull ache bloom from the wound. “How did you . . . I hardly felt—?”

  “Training,” she cut him off and knelt, studying the flow of his humour into the jar, watching it pool at the bottom.

  “I thought you needed only a little blood?” Rogger commented.

  “It is only a little. The bleeding will slow on its own.”

  Tylar saw she was right. Already the seep of blood thinned to rolling drops.

  “A true draining requires a slice deep to wrist, throat, or back of knee. This should be enough.” She stood and slipped a silk kerchief from a pocket. She tied a knot in it, placed it over the wound, snugged the ends tight around his wrist, and tied it in place with deft fingers. “Do not remove it for half a day.”

  Tylar had watched the seas through the window as she worked. “Here they come,” he mumbled.

  A quarter reach away, the sweep of high prows could now be seen, cutting through the black seas. Men moved in the rigging. Screened fire lamps shone out over the rails, lighting the waters, searching. Off to the left, the greater moon crested the waves, casting a swath of silver over the seas, pointing a finger directly at them. As Delia had noted earlier, there would be no hiding this night.

  “If you’re going to blow us up,” Rogger said, “let’s be quick about it.”

  Tylar made out the swinging form of Captain Grayl from the lead vessel. He felt the accusing eyes of the dead upon him. Then a fierce brightness enveloped the Fin. The path of one of the fire lamps had glanced over the craft—darkness descended again as the blaze swept away.

  Had they been spotted?

  Everyone held their breath. Even Delia halted her ministrations of the mekanicals.

  The blaze swung back, skittered over them again, then fixed in place, lighting the seas around them as bright as the midday sun.

  They had been found.

  The lead corsair turned, digging deep as it swung about. The macabre decoration swayed from the prow, the dead captain’s feet brushing the waves. Shouts echoed across the water, ghostly yet urgent.

  “I’m becoming more and more resolved to the blowing up part now,” Rogger said as he looked on, one hand raised against the glare.

  Delia hurriedly replaced the silver plug in the crystal sphere. “I’d hoped to test it first . . . to leach no more than a drop or two of blood into the mekanicals.”

  Tylar crouched beside her. “We don’t have the time.”

  Delia licked her lips, taking a deep breath.

  Tylar reached over and gathered her hands in his. Her fingers were ice cold. He warmed them by squeezing tightly. “You were Meeryn’s servant. She gave you her deepest trust and so do I.”

  “But—”

  “Let the Grace flow.”

  Delia nodded, her gaze firming. “Everyone hold on to something secure.”

  Tylar climbed into the pilot’s seat and waved for Rogger to sit.

  Delia reached to the plunger that controlled the flow. Her eyes glanced at Tylar, questioning. One last chance to change their minds.

  He gave her a nod.

  She pulled the plunger.

  The blood—his blood—drained down the bottom of the sphere, feeding into the mekanicals. The effect was immediate. As the fresh flow met the residual alchemies, the mica tubes flared to a brilliance that blinded, white hot and searing.

  “Oh, no . . .” Delia mumbled, slamming the plunger home again with the heel of her hand.

  White fire exploded outward, tracing the rib cage of mica tubing, passing over their heads, under their feet, sweeping back toward the stern. Tylar tasted the power on the back of his tongue, felt its heat on his skin.

  “Hold tight!” he choked out.

  The lines of fire converged upon the tapering stern and slammed together. The Fin reacted as if
kicked. It bucked forward, throwing them all back.

  Half-turned, Tylar’s neck jolted. He used his handhold on the Fin’s wheel to pull himself around. His ears rang. He stared through the window.

  The blood-fired craft had taken flight—or so it seemed. It skimmed the surface of the black sea, riding atop the twin fins that ran along the belly of the craft. The Fin struck each shallow wave with a shuddering impact, rattling teeth. Tylar tried to slow them, to eke out some measure of control with the wheel.

  No response.

  Like a bolt from a crossbow, they shot across the seas, as straight as a marksman’s aim.

  The target loomed ahead.

  The lead corsair.

  Its bulk swelled into a planked wall before them, filling the world.

  Tylar yanked the wheel to the right and left. It made no difference. They were headed for a deadly crash.

  Rogger grumbled behind him, “Now this is much better . . .”

  “Forget the wheel!” Delia cried out. “You have no rudder. The Fin’s tail is out of the water!”

  Her words awakened Tylar to his mistake. He had only been thinking port and starboard, right and left. In the ocean, there was also up and down. He shifted his feet to the floor pedals.

  Ahead, the flank of the corsair rushed toward them, ready to slam them from this world.

  Tylar shoved both pedals down to the floor. The Fin dipped its nose and dove down into the waves. The waters, lit by the moon and the fire lamps, swallowed them away, shining a deep aquamarine. Bubbles blew past as the craft sailed deep, descending toward the darker waters.

  But escape still eluded them. A monster blocked their path, a black behemoth. It was the submerged keel of the corsair.

  The Fin dove steeply, but their speed and proximity blurred their chances of ducking cleanly under it.

  The view went murky. Tylar held white-knuckled to the wheel.

  The wheel! He had forgotten! Now submerged, the rudder was back in the water.

  With a sharp twist, he rolled the vessel to starboard, swinging low the fin protruding from the top of the craft.

  And not a moment too soon.

  The port side struck a glancing blow against the keel as it passed beneath the corsair. But they cleared it. If the Fin had remained upright, the ironwood keel would’ve cleaved the top fin as surely as any ax, shattering open the tinier vessel.

  Free now, they swooped deeper into the darkening waters.

  No one made any joyous sounds, too raw with their fright.

  Tylar used the moment to test their controls. Wheel and pedals responded with the lightest touch, whetted by their speed. He stopped their descent. “We’ll have to turn around, sweep back,” he mumbled, more to himself than to his companions. “We’re heading south. We need to go north.”

  Delia rolled out of her seat and checked the glowing tubing. The white-fire brightness had already faded. She ran a finger cautiously along one of the mica channels. “Cracks. Everywhere. The pure blood is too raw, too volatile. It sheds its Grace violently, burning up quickly.”

  Tylar noted the controls growing sluggish.

  “But will the mekanicals last long enough for us to reach safe haven?” Rogger asked. “Somewhere solid enough to plant our feet upon?”

  “We must let the tubes cool,” Delia said, “then proceed more slowly from here. Only leach blood in drop by drop. I wasn’t sure how much would be necessary to fuel the Fin. Now I have some idea.”

  Tylar swung the Fin around, gliding upward into the moonlit waters. Ahead pools of brighter water marked the corsair’s lamps. He aimed for them.

  Rogger noted his course. “Are you daft, man? Where are you going? Circle around them.”

  Tylar ignored him and continued toward the fleet. He aimed for one ship. It lay ahead of the others. He owed someone a debt. He wouldn’t leave these seas without settling the matter.

  He sailed the Fin up to the pool of light surrounding the lead ship, then ducked into its shadow. He raced under the keel to the bow. Once there, he kept pace with the ship and gently guided the Fin upward, surfacing just under the prow.

  “Take the controls,” he ordered Delia. “Just keep us steady.”

  He climbed past Rogger—but not before relieving the man of his dagger. He crossed to the Fin’s stern and unhinged the hatch. He opened it enough to pop his head and one arm out.

  Death scented the salt air, gagging him with its immediacy. His target hung overhead, limned in lamplight. Close enough to touch one of the dangling feet. Grayl’s boots were missing, most likely stolen by one of Darjon’s crew. His body appeared sorely used.

  Tylar cocked his arm and threw the dagger with all the skill of his training. The blade flew true, slicing cleanly through the rope holding the captain aloft.

  The captain had died because of him. He would not leave the man to be picked at by seabirds and to bloat in the sun. Tylar owed him at least this. A burial in the salt of the sea. An honorable resting place for one of the plowers of the Deep.

  The body fell heavily into the waves, sinking rapidly away.

  The missing body would not go long unnoticed.

  Tylar dropped down, reaching out to slam the hatch.

  The arrow pierced his outstretched wrist, striking completely through and into the Fin, pinning his arm down. The shock struck him before the pain.

  Over the rail, a ragged scrap of darkness swept over the stars, skirting the risen moon. It swooped toward him.

  Darjon ser Hightower.

  A trap.

  The Shadowknight landed on the back of the Fin, cloak swirling, his eyes aglow with Grace. He seemed more ghost than man, fraying at the edges as the night ate the lines of his form.

  He spoke no words, had no hesitation. As soon as he landed, his sword swept for Tylar’s throat.

  Tylar ducked as low as he could, but his arm remained pinned outside, keeping him from escaping below. His shoulder wrenched. He moved too slowly. A whispered edge of the blade sliced across the crown of his scalp, leaving a line of fire behind.

  Below, in the cabin, he found Rogger staring up at him, unable to help.

  “Go!” Tylar shouted. Hot blood ran through his hair, past his ear, along his throat.

  Delia responded. The Fin jolted forward.

  Tylar hoped the sudden movement would unsteady the Shadowknight. Using this moment, Tylar leaped straight up and rolled out of the hatch.

  At the stern, Darjon had fallen to one knee, but he was already rising, a surge of shadow.

  Tylar focused on wrenching his arm free. Luckily, his own flesh had slowed the bolt. It had not struck the pod with much impact. He yanked his wrist free, taking the arrow with it.

  Agony blackened the edges of his vision. But Tylar had lived with the daily tortures of a broken body. The pain focused him, reminded him of his fury.

  The pair rose as one atop the back of the vessel: Darjon on one side of the tall central maneuvering fin, Tylar on the other. Darjon’s sword stabbed with Grace-borne speed, but Tylar anticipated it. He danced forward, using the fin as cover.

  Only then did he realize his mistake.

  Darjon had intended only to drive him away from the open hatch. The Shadowknight stepped around. He stood now between Tylar and escape.

  It was a foolish slip, one Tylar would never have made before. He may be hale of body, but he was far from his former sharpness of mind and reflex. But he knew enough to cast aside the mistake. It was done. A knight had to stay focused on the moment.

  The pod bounced regularly as it sped across hummocked waves. Footing was tricky on the wet surface of the craft.

  Tylar eyed the open hatch. If he could get below and seal the hatch, the pod could sink away. Darjon would be washed from its surface, forced to swim for his ship.

  The Shadowknight read the intent in Tylar’s gaze. With a sweep of cloak, he kicked the hatch closed and positioned himself atop it. “Where is your daemon now?” he taunted.

  Tylar did not
parry words. With his good arm, he slid free his sheathed sword, letting moonlight trace its length in molten silver.

  A hiss of recognition greeted its appearance.

  Tylar held Darjon’s own blood-sworn sword, stolen in the Summering Isles.

  Tylar stepped around the maneuvering fin. He cradled his wrist, still impaled by the crossbow’s bolt, to his belly. He noted movement through the Fin’s window below. Delia leaned forward, a hand pressed to her cheek, her eyes bright with concern as they met his. She reached from her face to the glass, laying her hand on it.

  He turned away. It wasn’t good-bye yet.

  He studied Darjon. Tylar knew it would be impossible to lure the knight away from the hatch. He’d have to go to him, meet him.

  Darjon kept his sword low, waiting, ready.

  Tylar edged along the Fin, keeping his balance as the waves rattled the craft. Past Darjon’s shoulder, the fleet of corsairs continued their pursuit, lamps aglow. Tylar recalled the ebbing power in the Fin. They did not have time to spare.

  He stepped past the end of the maneuvering fin, facing Darjon.

  They were beyond quips or barbs. A dead stillness lay upon them both. As in a match of kings and queens, the opening move was the most important. Feint or attack. Advance or retreat. Guard up or down.

  The matter was settled in a flash of silver, lightning strikes in the night. Neither could tell who attacked first. Both moved swiftly, speed borne of Grace, fury, and desperation.

  Tylar turned his wrist, blocking a thrust to his heart. The knight’s sword slid down his blade and struck his hilt’s steel guard with a resounding blow. Tylar felt the impact all the way to the shoulder. Darjon was damnably strong.

  Forced back a step, Tylar shoved the knight’s sword up and away. Bringing his own point low, he sliced through a fold of shadowcloak. If there was any flesh beneath it, Tylar did not find it.

  Darjon knocked the blade down with a slamming blow from his hilt, then spun on a heel to slip inside Tylar’s guard. An elbow struck Tylar in the center of the chest, knocking air from his lungs.

  Another misstep in this dance.