Into The Void

by Nigel Findley

  As if the bursting port had been the signal, the attack began in earnest. Arrows and crossbow bolts rained down on the hammership’s deck as the slave bowmen fired their first salvo. The majority of the Probe’s crew was under some kind of cover, however – crouched below the starboard gunwale, or concealed behind the ship’s small longboat – and casualties were light. The hammership’s crew returned fire, with much greater effect, into the massed attackers.

  With a hissing roar, something hurtled by over Teldin’s head. Ballista bolt, probably, directed at the knot of officers on the forecastle. Aelfred and the others separated, spreading themselves out and eliminating the close grouping of people that must be an attractive target for the deathspider’s gunners. A roar burst from the throats of the neogi vessel’s crew members as they charged across the upper surface of the spidership’s bridge. The umber hulks who had been among them were now behind them, urging them on, forcing them forward. The hammership’s crew was still firing, and the arrows and bolts tore into the front ranks. Teldin saw a man stop, howling in pain, a longbow arrow protruding from his chest. The man threw his weapon down and tried to turn back, to escape the carnage. He tried to force his way through the pack of attackers, back toward the relative safety of the deathspider. For a moment the charge wavered, its momentum broken, then an umber hulk pressed forward and lashed out with an iron-hard claw. The wounded man shrieked again, louder, and his torn and twitching body plunged off the ship and into the darkness, spewing blood. Teldin turned away.

  This object lesson wasn’t lost on the other attackers. They rushed forward once more, with even more vigor.

  Aelfred had been right in his analysis. The bridge section of the deathspider was narrow, which meant that not all the attackers could advance at once. They came forward in waves, full into the devastating fire of the hammership’s crew. Men rushed forward, under the urging of the umber hulks … and they died. “We’re holding them,” Aelfred muttered.

  But the situation couldn’t last for long. Some of the umber hulks forced their way to the front of the attacking group, knocking humans aside like dolls, tumbling unfortunates over the side of the vessel into space. The Probe’s defenders kept firing, but their murderous barrage couldn’t stop the armored monsters’ advance. Arrows glanced harmlessly off the creatures’ shells; bolts lodged in plates of natural armor, but didn’t penetrate. The monstrosities continued their approach across the deathspider’s bridge.

  “Vallus!” Aelfred shouted.

  The elf was already weaving the power of another spell. He extended one hand, fingers outspread, toward the attacking monsters. An arrow seemed to spring from the tips of his fingers, driving deep into the chest of the leading hulk. It bellowed its agony, tearing at its own flesh as if to pluck out the arrow, then collapsed to the deck.

  Sylvie had joined the fray as well. In response to her incantation, a dozen or more rubbery, black tentacles burst from the spidership’s hull and wrapped themselves around the legs and torsos of the advancing hulks. Some of the creatures quickly tore the tentacles away; others weren’t so lucky. Teldin watched in mixed awe and horror as several of the tentacles tightened around their victims, immobilizing them, and started to crush their hard carapaces. One umber hulk lurched back, one arm virtually torn away, and fell into the darkness. Another collapsed where it stood, its head a shattered ruin.

  Mighty though it was, the magical assault wasn’t enough to stop the attack. Haifa dozen hulks still survived, though most of those were wounded to one degree or another. As the mages paused to prepare new spells, the attackers lumbered forward. With rattling barks of triumph, the creatures reached the hammership’s rail and swung their massive bodies over. Still being forced along by the remaining hulks, the human slaves followed the gruesome shock troops. The second phase of the defense of the Probe had begun.

  The main deck was a pandemonium of brawling figures. Packs of Probe crewmen harried individual umber hulks, striking at the monsters’ backs and flanks, desperately struggling to stay out of reach of the creatures’ rending claws. Others fought in knots, or one on one, against the human and demihuman attackers from the deathspider. The air was filled with screams of rage and agony and grunts of exertion, punctuated by the umber hulks’ barking cries. Above all was the clash and skirl of steel on steel.

  Sweor Tobregdan, Aelfred’s second mate, bellowed orders from the sterncastle, trying to direct the defense. If there was any plan to the fight, however, Teldin couldn’t see it. People fought where they had to, or where an opportunity presented itself. This wasn’t organized warfare, with its lines of offense and defense, coordinated sorties, and countercharges. This was more like a barroom brawl: no order, no central command, and no quarter asked or given.

  The second mate must have seen the futility of yelling orders that nobody could hear, because he leaped down the ladder to the main deck and threw himself into the fray. Almost instantly, four of the deathspider’s human crewmen sprang at him, and he went down under them.

  “Sweor!” Aelfred yelled. He made to leap into the midst of the fray and somehow cut his way to where his friend needed him, but Bubbo’s hand landed heavily on his shoulder. For a moment, the big warrior fought – vainly – to escape the grip of the even bigger weapons master. Then reason quieted Aelfred’s anger. He nodded his thanks to Bubbo.

  Sweor needed no help, as it turned out. An instant later, he reappeared, his clothing and blade drenched with blood – not his own – leaving his erstwhile adversaries motionless on the deck.

  Another spell split the air. A fan of seven shimmering multicolored rays lashed from Vallus’s outstretched hands and struck two umber hulks on the deck below. One fell instantly lifeless, a huge, smoking rent torn in the armor of its chest. He other screamed its agony, flailing about wildly with an arm now blackened and twisted and missing perhaps half of its length. The Probe crewmen who faced the beast seized the opportunity. Two lunged in on its other flank and buried their swords hilt-deep in the creature’s abdomen. The hulk lashed out with its good arm, striking one of its attackers with back-breaking force, but a crewman on the other side crouched low and swung his axe at the monster’s ankle. It connected and, with another ear-splitting shriek, the creature crashed to the deck. Its assailants were on it at once.

  Teldin didn’t see the creature’s death. A clash of steel on steel from close by drew his attention. Some of the attackers were trying to reach the forecastle, he saw at once. Two were trying to climb the starboard ladder from the main deck. Liono was holding them off, and they hadn’t yet reached the forecastle deck itself, but their swordwork was good enough – even on the ladder – that the aged tactician was unable to kill them. Other attackers were swarming up the port ladder, and Bubbo was lumbering over to deal with them. Teldin hefted Gendi’s short sword and felt the tension of feat in the tendons of his forearm.

  With no warning, a spear hissed past Teldin’s ear and drove, quivering, into the side of the forward turret. Another slammed into Liono’s ribs, transfixing his thin body. The tactician fell silently. Teldin looked around wildly for the new attackers.

  The assault was coming from a totally new direction. Some of the deathspider’s crew had managed to clamber over onto the lobe that extended from the starboard side of the Probe’s hull – in fact, onto the metalwork that formed the roof of the officer’s saloon. Teldin estimated maybe a dozen men, being herded forward by another umber hulk.

  “Starboard side forward!” Teldin bellowed at the top of his lungs. He pointed toward the new danger.

  It was Sylvie who reacted first. She spun and again hissed syllables of power. A chunk of metal-braced wood from the shattered ballista lifted from the deck and was hurled with inhuman force into the new group of attackers. Several fell, screaming, but the others had reached the forecastle and were now in the partial shelter of the forward turret. Aelfred and Sylvie hurried forward to engage them. Teldin moved to follow his friends.

  At the last instant, h
is peripheral vision spotted motion. Instinctively he ducked … and another spear whistled over his head, to glance off the turret side and disappear over the rail. With Liono gone, his two opponents, followed by a handful of others, had reached the forecastle deck unopposed. Teldin saw one leap toward Estriss, sword swinging to cleave the mind flayer’s head in two. He tried to yell a warning to his friend – friend? yes! – but sickeningly knew it was too late.

  Estriss made no move to defend himself. The creature just turned featureless, white eyes on its murderer.

  And suddenly the attacker arched backward, as though he’d been struck full in the face by a tremendous blow. The attacker screamed, clutching his head with both hands. His sword clattered to the deck.

  With a sinuous speed that Teldin had never seen from the illithid before, Estriss lunged forward and flung himself atop the writhing man. Red-tinged hands pried the man’s own hands away from his head. Estriss bent low, and his facial tentacles lashed out to cup the human’s skull. The neogi slave screamed again ….

  Nausea and horror washed over Teldin, and he turned away. He was just in time. Two attackers were moving his way, weapons at the ready. Teldin tightened his grip on his sword and dropped into the defensive stance that Aelfred had shown him. He backed away cautiously. His two opponents advanced, no less tentatively, and separated as though to flank him. Both were scrawny men, he noticed, actually emaciated. Their eyes looked wild, almost insane. One was about his own size, while the other was considerably taller, but neither could have weighed nearly as much as he did. The larger man was naked to the waist, and Teldin could easily see his ribs showing under his skin. On the man’s upper left chest was some kind of discoloration. It took him a moment to understand that it was a tattoo of some kind, a marking totally alien in its symbology.

  Disgust and pity warred with his fear. This had to be the mark identifying the slave’s owner.

  With a grunt of exertion, the larger man lunged forward, thrusting the point of his sword directly at Teldin’s throat.

  The almost familiar sense of focus closed over Teldin’s mind like a reassuring blanket. Once again his time sense changed. His attacker’s fast thrust became something that was so slow as to be almost lethargic. Teldin had plenty of time to gauge the man’s attack and judge that the thrust could be deflected if he positioned his own weapon … there.

  His sword came up fast. Steel rang on steel, and the attacker’s blade deflected past Teldin’s shoulder. The man’s weight shift carried him on, and Teldin found himself staring into the man’s surprised face. As a continuation of his own parry, Teldin drove his fist out. His knuckles, backed by the mass and momentum of his sword hilt, slammed into the man’s jaw with stunning force. The big man’s head snapped back on his neck, and his eyes glazed with pain.

  The other attacker was moving, too, aiming a whistling cut at Teldin’s side. Teldin had plenty of time to bring his own blade around to parry that attack, too. When their blades struck, Teldin was braced and ready, but still the impact jarred painfully up his arm. The small man was already dropping back to avoid Teldin’s thrust.

  The point is mightier than the edge. Aelfred’s words rang in Teldin’s head. But the short sword does have on edge. Quickly, before his small assailant could jump completely out of the way, Teldin snapped his wrist straight, the way Aelfred had done. His blade licked out like silver death, scribing a thick line of red across his attacker’s belly. The smaller man staggered back, howling, arms clutching his abdomen as if to keep his entrails where they belonged.

  The larger attacker had shaken off the effects of Teldin’s blow and was moving in again. Teldin feinted once for the man’s face, then tried to thrust into his belly when his opponent raised his guard. Although everything around him still seemed to be moving in slow motion, Teldin’s own motions were starting to slow, too. His opponent had fallen for the feint but still managed to bring his blade back down in time to parry Teldin’s lunge. The big man countered with a cut that would have torn Teldin’s chest open if he hadn’t danced back out of range.

  Sweat stung Teldin’s eyes, and the tendons in his forearm burned with fatigue. The cloak – if that was what was responsible for this – could focus his mind, he realized, but it could do little for his body. And he was no hardened and conditioned swordsman.

  His eyes met those of his attacker. They were empty, devoid of any human feeling. Still, Teldin thought, inexplicably, they were capable of reading Teldin’s doubts in his own eyes. As if to confirm that, the big man smiled.

  Teldin knew no tactics, no skillful techniques with the short sword. With the knife he’d been taught various moves – the flick thrust, the wrist cut, even the throw – but to drop his sword and draw his knife would be suicide. The only thing that Aelfred had taught him was the lunge, and he used it.

  His blade licked out like a striking serpent, straight for his opponent’s heart. The big man was still slightly open after his wild cut, and his parry was late. There was no way he could get his blade back in time to deflect the thrust. Satisfaction, even exultation, dimly penetrated Teldin’s almost unemotional concentration.

  Then something slammed with crushing force into Teldin’s wrist. His arm was batted aside, and his sword flew from suddenly numbed fingers. He staggered backward.

  The man hadn’t had enough time to parry the thrust properly, Teldin knew, but he had found just enough time to smash the pommel of his sword into Teldin’s wrist.

  The pain of the impact was incredible. His wrist must be broken, Teldin thought. He took another couple of steps away from the big swordsman, clutching his injured arm to his belly. His back pressed against the port rail of the forecastle. There was nowhere to run. Even now, with death imminent, he saw the ironic parallel between this moment and his first meeting with Estriss.

  Maybe it was the pain that broke the effect, but Teldin’s intense sense of focus evaporated. His time sense returned to normal, and the fear that had been somehow held in abeyance crashed through his body like a mighty wave. Teldin’s killer stepped forward, a smile splitting his face. Teldin looked into the man’s eyes. They were empty, almost soulless. There would be no mercy here. The man drew back his blade, readying for the cut that would tear Teldin in two.

  Chapter Seven

  He was looking death in the face, Teldin realized. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the figure of Estriss, racing to his aid, but he knew the illithid would arrive much too late. His killer’s sword flashed downward. With an inarticulate cry, Teldin reached out toward the descending sword arm, a futile attempt to fend off destruction.

  And power flared – behind him, around him, within him. The cloak around his neck crackled with power. His skin tingled with it; his bones burned with it. The feeling was like lying naked under the noontime sun, but: infinitely magnified. He felt that the very bones of his body must be glowing with the blue-white radiance of lightning, their brilliance shining right through his skin. He flung his head back and he howled, as though the sound had been ripped out of him. He thrust his hand out – no longer to block his attacker’s slash, now directly toward the big man’s chest.

  His howl turned to a scream of agony – or was it ecstacy? Tiny, burning lights burst from his outstretched fingers. Intense, three-pointed stars – dazzling, almost blinding – sizzled through the air, forming a curtain, a curved shield of light, between him and his adversary. Teldin could see the shock dawn in the swordsman’s eyes, but it was much too late for the man to check his swing. The sword struck that hissing curtain.

  There was a crack like thunder. The sword’s blade stopped as suddenly as if it had hit a stone wall. For an instant it was frozen there, glowing with the same actinic radiance as the curtain itself, then it exploded into tiny fragments. The swordsman reeled back, screaming in terror. His body was covered, head to toe, with tiny nicks from the splinters of his own sword. He stared with horror and disbelief at Teldin, then he turned and fled the foredeck.

  As sudde
nly as it had sprung into being, the sizzling curtain of light vanished. Teldin lowered his arm. The sense of power was gone; no trace of it remained. In its place, coldness and weakness washed through him. His heart pounded, and he gasped with exertion and horror.

  How? How could he have done that? He knew that the power came from outside of him, from the cloak – there was no doubt about that now. But how? How was it triggered, and why? What was its purpose?

  He shook his head. Now was definitely not the time. With an ultimate effort, he forced his questions, his doubt, from the forefront of his mind. Later, he told himself, if there is a later.

  The balance of the battle had swung in favor of the Probe’s crew, Teldin saw quickly. The majority of the attackers – human and monstrous – lay dead on the hammership’s deck. Most of the remainder were actually trying to withdraw, back onto tie deathspider from the killing ground that the Probe’s deck had become. There were pockets of resistance where the attackers were still holding out – mainly centered around the two surviving umber hulks – but in most other places aboard the hammership the battle had degenerated into mopping up.

  There was still fighting on the Probe’s foredeck. Aelfred, now assisted by Bubbo and Estriss and two other crewmen, was driving a desperate group of attackers back. There was nowhere for them to go except out onto the upper surface of the officers’ saloon. From there, they’d have to clamber back onto the deathspider’s grappling leg and thence to the big ship’s bridge, all the while being harried by the Probe’s best warriors. If they didn’t make it, they’d fall into space. From his vantage point, Teldin could see a dozen bodies floating in space along the deathspider’s gravity plane. They bobbed gently as though floating in water and were slowly moving outward from the ship. It was as though they were being drawn toward the margin of the air envelope that surrounded the ships. Presumably, when they reached the edge of that envelope – and the edge of the ship’s gravitational effect – they’d drift in the phlogiston, free of any gravity.