Hiero stared coldly at the officer when he had learned all he thought useful. “You have lied to each question,” he said finally. “You were warned.” His signal to B’uorgh was sent so swiftly that the knife was in the man’s throat before the mind could realize a death sentence had been passed. Hiero dismissed the matter. He had read enough in the fellow’s past to sentence him to death a dozen times over, murder of helpless women being only one of the charges.
He stepped over the twitching body, realizing with distaste that his sandals were slippery with blood, and once more stared out at the Abbey war fleet, still engaged in softening up the waterfront with methodical, well-aimed fire. Behind him, the wind rose in increasing strength, ruffling his hair as it blew—steadily now and, aside from small gusts, always to the north, to the sea. The wind, he thought idly, now why was the wind on his mind? The enemy was undoubtedly coming fast; their grim, speedy ships, driven by silent motors in the sleek metal hulls, must even now be close upon the town.
Why on earth was the wind so much in the foreground of his thoughts? Then his thoughts clarified. That was the answer!
He wheeled and began to rap out orders, punctuating them with an occasional question. In no more than a minute, so rapid was the mental interchange on the catfolk’s mental band, the decision was made and the little party was groping its way down the stairs.
The lower part of the building still seemed silent and deserted. Smoke fumes swirled in through the ancient door. The shrieks and cries, the crackle of flames, and the roar of the bombs and shells outside, all came from a distance. The impetus of the attack, Hiero thought, seemed to have shifted a bit and was coming more from the west, as if the Metz fleet had moved in that direction. So much the better for his purpose.
As silently as so many ghosts, the five departed from the old building and darted off down the narrow street, all senses tensed to the uttermost. Hiero led, along with B’uorgh, for his human abilities were more needed here in this human-built maze than the more finely attuned nerves of his allies. Soon they came to a small square and shrank back against reeking walls as a mob of shouting people crossed in front of them. Its members seemed to be some of the bewildered and terrified human populace, running with no clear aim in view, and soon disappeared in the smoke off to the east. Hiero signaled, and the five ran swiftly across the square and vanished into the gloom of a smoldering building on the far side. They were heading, insofar as the man could tell, on a slight downward slant. If his judgment, backed by a view from the tower, was at all accurate, they would strike the water in a fairly short time. Once a running figure, shapeless in the murk, loomed up in front of them; but one sight of the five grim shapes, their size magnified by the poor light, was enough to send the runner shrieking away down a side alley.
We must be even more careful now, the Metz sent. The main body of their troops will be down here near the water. We have to get through them and find a boat.
M’reen answered. The water is not far. I can smell it. Even through this dirty air and smoke, it smells clean.
Suddenly, more quickly than the man had thought possible, they were there. They had been slinking down a narrow runway, lined with cracked brick underfoot, when it came abruptly to an end. Before them lay a tangle of ancient piers, some half-rotted and leaning drunkenly in the mud of the shore’s edge, while others burned sluggishly, ignited either by the shells of the strange fleet or by chance-caught sparks. The wind still blew from behind the group’s backs, and the wreaths of smoke wafted straight out before them to the open sea beyond.
Hiero scanned the scene, his eyes intent for one purpose. There were no Unclean about, at least not near. He could sense them on either side in strength, but none were close. He knew that if the catfolk had seen or sensed why, he would be told at once. He listened intently, but the gunfire was still off to the left, down toward the west. Here where he stood, due to some trick of acoustics, it was even quite quiet, and he could actually hear the lapping of tiny waves on the muddy foreshore at the foot of the street.
Then his roving gaze fixed on a small, pointed shape, half-hidden under one of the crumbling docks, moving gently to the action of the water. It was this slight movement that had caught his eye. He stared harder and again checked the immediate neighborhood for other movement. He could see nothing, yet instinct now began to warn him. There was another presence somewhere near, something watching!
It made no difference, he told himself. Time was too important for these vague fears. The decision had to be taken.
Wait here and keep watch on all sides, he sent. If that thing out under the wood, that thing which sits on the water, is what we need, I will signal. Without waiting for assent, he darted out into the open and sped across and down to the mud and the lapping, oily tide. In a second, he was over the side of the small boat and staring at its sole occupant—doubtless some local fisherman.
The man must have been trying to flee, for there were both oars and a net in the skiff. He was unarmed save for a belt knife and was clad only in a leather vest and a loincloth. Either in the act of fleeing or earlier, he had been shot, and the vanes of a crossbow quarrel thrust up from the center of his back. The oars were still bundled, and it looked to Hiero as if he had been carrying them to the boat when he had suddenly taken leave of life, one more unnumbered casualty of the war.
The Metz breathed a quick prayer, in case the man should have been honest and not one of the Unclean, then tipped the body over the side into the shallows. He turned and waved once, a beckoning gesture, then seated himself on the central thwart and began to cut the leather painter which held the boat to a cleat on one of the crumbling pilings. Seconds later, the other four were wading alongside and clambering aboard, to huddle excitedly on the bottom. In another instant, Hiero had the oars between the crude rowlocks and was easing the little craft out under the pilings toward the open sea.
Behind him, eyes glared in impotent rage from the narrow slit of a window set high on a ruined wall. A white hand fumbled with a neck chain of bluish metal; then, a decision taken, it dropped again. A hooded shape whirled and departed in haste on an urgent errand.
The little boat was about three times Hiero’s length, high of prow and with a pointed stern. She rode the water sweetly as the Metz pulled hard away from the shore. The People of the Wind, nervous and yet stoic, crouched silently, two in the bow and two in front of the man and aft. All four were trembling with excitement and the newness of the experience, but they would have died rather than admit it. As the waves increased in strength, they simply laid back their ears and waited for whatever their new friend had to tell them.
Hiero was constantly checking the wind while calculating the course. His scheme was so filled with holes that he could only hope that it had a bare chance of succeeding. If only the wind would keep blowing from the south! Meanwhile, he watched over his shoulder for what the thinning smoke and reek of the burning town would reveal.
Ah! Sure enough, there was the Metz fleet! The five warships, looking more than ever like turtles or even the roofs of barns come adrift, were slowly steaming back to the east in his direction, firing as steadily as ever. If the offshore breeze obscured their targets, they gave no sign of it. Gaps in the smoke probably afforded them all the aiming points they needed. Farther out, the armada of sailing craft still moved sluggishly under light sail, waiting for a signal to close in. The offshore breeze held steady over the brown water.
Hiero rested on his oars and stared as hard as he could to the east, using his mind at its utmost, as well as his eyes. Was there something there? On the edge of his mind, that something came, then went, then came again and steadied. It was like a cloud, a moving shroud in his mind. He could detect no thoughts, nor did he need to do so. Once before, on the far side of the Inland Sea, he had felt this sensation. Ships were coming from the east, faster than anything driven by either sail or the engines of the new vessels of his country. The secret ships of the enemy were coming to the rescue
of Neeyana, summoned by the devices of the Masters of the Unclean. The lightning guns were going to be opposed to the crude armor of the Metz warships.
Hiero had no hope in his own mind as to which would be the victor. The Metz ships were powerful and had taken Neeyana by surprise. But he did not for one moment think his people could stand up against the forces of the Unclean ships. That Abbot Demero and the Abbey Council were the source of the new war fleet, he never doubted. But he felt that, in the short time the Abbeys had had at their disposal, they could hardly have matched the strength and speed of the Unclean warships. Wonderful as it was to see a Metz battle squadron, those crude floating forts would be horribly outclassed by what was speeding from the east!
M’reen, he sent in haste, get ready with your preparations. Hurry! The enemy comes! We must all lie down so that this craft appears empty. If our foes see nothing but a drifting skiff, they may pass before us to attack our friends.
It was B’uorgh who answered. She is working. And I can see our enemy. How fast they come!
Hiero could see them now himself, two dots rushing at tremendous speed from down the coast to the east, growing larger by the minute. He almost wrung his hands. If only he could break the mental shield of his friends and tell them what was going on! He ducked below the gunwale with the others and tried to free his mind from worry. At the same time, he felt a sudden wave of fear come over him and secretly rejoiced. For M’reen’s bag of hide was open and her hands were stirring, mixing, and blending. The fear was coming back from her, ignored by the cat people but acting on his human body chemistry! The Wind of Death was churning and drifting out over the open sea to their front. The veils of smoke from the burning port had something far more lethal than a throat irritant mixed in with their dark shroud.
Hiero stole a look to the west, then ducked back hastily. So far all was well. The Abbey fleet had formed a line well down the coast and was preparing to receive the Unclean forces. The ships were no longer firing at the town, and the sailing vessels had moved even farther down in order to take shelter behind them.
They come, B’uorgh sent. Now we will see.
Hiero shut his eyes and began to pray. He had done all he could, and only God could help now. Perhaps the Unclean wizards had learned long in the past how to nullify this awful weapon, back in the days when the catfolk had broken free and fled from their bondage of torture and enslavement.
As he prayed silently, he heard the sound he had been waiting for and dreading, the hissing crackle of the enemy weapon which had once struck him down—the lightning gun! Was it aimed at their little vessel? One blast could incinerate them in seconds. He could no longer restrain himself and peered over the side of the boat. So did the others, and all five beings watched the panorama of a sea battle in silent awe.
The Unclean ships, sharp-prowed and slender, had no tactics for pitched battle on anything like an equal basis. They had never had to learn any, since their mysterious craft so far outclassed any possible foe. As a result, they simply charged at the Metz fleet, bows on, the weapons on their foredecks firing as fast as they could. The two ships were quite close to each other, as if racing to be first for what they thought was the inevitable kill. They apparently never even noticed the drifting boat which floated on the oily sea a quarter of a mile to their south and well out of their path. And they were scoring hits. As the Metz priest had feared, the strange weapon on their bows, which somehow fired sheets of static electricity, outranged the crude cannon of the Metz fleet. Already one of the clumsy vessels was smoking from a great rent in its sloping hull, although it held its line along with the other four. None of the Abbey ships were firing now, and Hiero knew they were holding back until their outranged weapons could bear. He prayed again for the miracle he had tried so hard to conjure up, his eyes smarting both from the smoke and with unshed tears for the discipline that held his countrymen in their silent line.
And, as miracles sometimes do, especially when backed by courage and forethought, it happened.
The two slender Unclean war craft were well past the drifting boat, still pointing at the enemy fleet, when they seemed to go mad. Hiero suddenly saw one of them yaw wildly and head at full speed for its consort’s unprotected flank. At the same time, the crackle of the lightning guns ceased abruptly, and the group in the boat could hear a screaming outcry come over the now silent waters. Black dots, which spilled and sprang from the metal hulls like demented fleas, showed where the crews of the stricken ships fled in sheer madness from their hitherto unconquered craft. And then came the final act. With no one—or perhaps a fright-driven lunatic—at the helm, the ship nearest the shore drove at full speed into the side of her racing neighbor, the sharp prow cutting like a gigantic plow, two-thirds of the way back from the peak.
There was first a small puff of smoke as the locked hulls drifted to a halt, then a blaze of white light which made the five cover their eyes. The roar of a tremendous explosion followed the light, and all ducked once more under the shelter of the gunwale. A whistling noise in the overcast air made them try to flatten themselves on the bottom even further. As they crouched in terror, splashes of water all around them sent a spray over their flinching bodies.
Fighting his panic, Hiero looked up and was in time to see the wave coming. He sprang to the central thwart and, in one motion, shipped the oars and turned the boat bows on to the wail of water sweeping down upon them. They rose high on the crest and rushed deep into the valley beyond, but the Metz had acted in the bare nick of time, and hardly a drop of water was taken in. The second and third waves were far smaller, and he had no trouble meeting them. Only then did he once more rest on his oars and wave the cat people up so that all could see the results of their work.
Where the Unclean ships had met in their final and horrific tangle, now a vast and greasy circle lay on the water, widening as the south wind sent the gentle waves to spread it yet farther out. Bits of wood and rubbish floated here and there, none of them large. Of life, there was no sign whatever. The grim vessels, which for so long had haunted the south shore of the Inland Sea, were totally gone. With them went their adept commanders of the Dark Brotherhood, their crews of ghastly mutants, and the human scum which served on them…
In the bow of Hiero’s fishing boat, M’reen sat smiling, her leather bag on her lap, her furry ears cocked, and a broad and sharp-toothed smile on her expressive face. The Wind of Death had triumphed over the enemies of her race in a total victory, one on a scale of which she and her folk had never conceived. There would be songs around the hearth fires of her clan for countless generations over this! A keening purr of triumph rose from four lipless mouths, a wild rhythm of exaltation, as the freest of the free rejoiced at the death of their sometime masters.
Hiero smiled as he watched the swelling throat muscles and the blazing eyes. He would have liked to join in, had his vocal chords been capable of so doing. He had already remembered to give thanks to his Deity in his own way, silently, but no less heartfelt. He had no illusions about their luck. They had been lucky indeed! The timing, the weapon, and the wind had all been just exactly right. One could not count on such things forever, or even more than once. And there was still a lot to be done. This was only the first skirmish of what promised to be a terrible war, one extending far into the future and over many thousands of leagues.
Reluctantly, he called the catfolk back from their paean of joy and brutally brought them to the present.
Friends, he sent, the war is over. We have much to do, and first we must meet my other comrades. This is what I have come so many weary paces out of the South to do. He pointed with one bronzed hand at the Metz fleet, which was milling in some disorder, shaken by the totally unexpected end to the battle. Sit quietly now, and I will row us out there. And pray to your wind gods my own folk don’t turn their thunder weapons on us before I can tell them who we are!
Actually, it was not that hard, The Metz warships were steaming slowly east once more, and an alert lookou
t spotted the little craft rowing toward them almost at once. The lead vessel slowed as Hiero and his party approached, the smoke from its twin stacks dying down as it did so. From a wheelhouse set forward, a group of figures emerged to gaze down at them. Noticing that several of the round muzzles set in the slanting hull were also pointing downward in their direction, Hiero shipped his oars and stood up, arms over his head. Then he lowered them and slowly began to cross himself with his right hand, moving it over his broad chest so that all could see his action clearly.
There was a moment of silence as he stood there and the fishing boat drifted closer. Then, over the narrowing gap, came a bull’s bellow of a voice. “Look at that sword! Look at that dirty face! Look at that dung-eating grin! I told everyone they couldn’t hang the worst priest and the most useless bum in the Metz Republic! He’s alive!”
Hiero laughed with relief. “What are you doing on that hulk, you big moron? I didn’t know they let you near water. You never bathed in your life and you’re not smart enough to learn to swim!”
The big man smiled down at him with a weary benevolence. Per Edard Maluin was a head taller than Hiero and twice his weight. He had the thews of a bull morse and the chubby face of an innocent child, vastly enlarged. He was a veteran of the Frontier Guards, a murderous killer at need, and one of Hiero’s best friends, having roomed with him in the Abbey Academy when they were only in their teens.
“Who are your friends, Shorty? And are you lucky! Did you see what we just dealt with? This ship, which I command, please note, and the others?”
Hiero took one oar and sculled over to the hull of the big vessel. Then he looked up, his face incredulous, at the small group above.
“You dealt with? You’d be so much garbage at the bottom of the sea, my friend, if it weren’t for me and these four chums of mine. What do you think made the Unclean go crazy, then ram each other? The distant sight of your ugly face?”
Per Edard’s eyes narrowed. Behind his broad forehead lurked a very good mind, and he was suddenly thinking hard. “So that was you, was it? I might have known. You always were the king of the dirty tricks league. And thank God for it! Now listen, come aboard quickly. We have a war to finish and we have to clean out that rats’ nest. We have new mind shields and they’re being held tight, so I can’t talk to your pals. Come up on the bridge with me, and we’ll get back to work.”
The Unforsaken Hiero hd-2 Page 20
