[Florin & Lorenzo 01] - The Burning Shore

by Robert Earl - (ebook by Undead)

  Florin hefted the bulky weapon and squinted along the length. The two beads, fore and aft, bobbed up and down as he waved the pistol inexpertly from side to side.

  “Good, good,” Graznikov muttered, after priming the second. “Now look. Trigger. Punch back. Make hammer punch here. Then, bang! Very easy.”

  “I see,” said Florin. He’d once used a similar weapon, although that had been a long time ago.

  “Now, come. Stand here. We fire at bottle, yes?”

  “But I don’t know how,” Florin shrugged and tried to give the pistol back. Graznikov shook his head.

  “No problem. First, practise. Look along barrel,” Florin followed his advice, and peered along the foreshortened steel.

  “Make line of sights.” The bottle jumped back and forth across the two beads, until Florin gradually held it still.

  “Now punch trigger!”

  Florin fired. The pistol leapt in his hands, an explosion of flame and black smoke erupting from the muzzle.

  When it had cleared he peered forward, cautiously massaging his wrist.

  “Hey, not bad. Look, I chipped the rail just to the left of it.”

  “Good, good,” Graznikov beamed. “She pulls, that one. They both do. To the left. Now, again, and point a little right.”

  Florin took the next pistol and aimed again, this time waiting until the sights were an inch to the right before firing.

  Once more the pistol roared as it spat a blur of lead out in its fiery breath. This time, when the smoke cleared, there was nothing left of the bottle apart from a fine dusting of glass splinters.

  “Very good,” the skipper said, dryly. “But if you want to carry on shooting my ship, go and fire at that mess at the pinnace. It’s all going to have to go anyway.”

  “Good, good,” Graznikov nodded, busily reloading the second pistol and handing it back to Florin. “Come, my friend, we’ll find a target, yes? A wager?”

  “We’ll see,” Florin muttered, swapping a wary glance with Lorenzo before following the stocky Kislevite up to the rail.

  For a while the two men regarded the messy tangle that was all that remained of the Destrier’s elegant pinnace. Where once the sleek wood had thrust forward from her prow, as sharp and eager as a narwhal’s tusk, it was now a splintered stump, the canvas and rope that it had once borne so elegantly aloft now trailed miserably downwards into the sea.

  “Why don’t you shoot at that block on the end?” the skipper suggested, coming forward to stand between the two men.

  “Yes. Good,” Graznikov nodded.

  “It’s a bit small, isn’t it?”

  “No hurry,” Graznikov grinned encouragingly.

  “What do you think, Lorenzo?” Florin asked doubtfully.

  “I think you’re mad,” he said, and spat disgustedly over the side. “What do you know about guns? Might as well just give him our money now and have done with it.”

  “Stupid,” Graznikov snarled at him. “Maybe I fire at you instead.”

  Florin chewed his lip thoughtfully until Graznikov, overwhelmed with disgust, snatched the pistol from his hand.

  “Yes, too weak. Too frightened,” he sneered.

  Florin turned on him, face flushed with anger, or drink, or a combination of the two.

  “Give me the gun,” he demanded. “Let’s do it. The skipper can be our witness. If I shoot the block off first my men get the upper deck. If you do it, I’ll pay you twenty crowns.”

  “Gold crowns,” Graznikov reminded him.

  “Gold it is.”

  “You’re sure about this?” the skipper, who knew trouble brewing when he saw it, asked them.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” the Kislevite agreed impatiently.

  “Yes,” Florin nodded.

  “I go first,” Graznikov said and, before anybody could protest, he raised his pistol and fired.

  It was an excellent shot. If the block hadn’t swung to one side at the same moment that the Kislevite had fired the bullet, it would have hit dead centre. As it was, it just chipped the side and spun it around like a top.

  For a moment the men watched spellbound as the rope from which it hung twisted and knotted, frayed edges sticking out wildly. But for now, at least, the block remained in place.

  “Not bad,” Florin allowed, heartened by Graznikov’s scowl. Then he turned his attention to the block. It swung and bobbed, a tiny mark against the shifting blues and greens of the sea. It occurred to Florin, not for the first time, that he could stand here blazing away at it all day without even chipping the target.

  Well, that was no problem.

  With a final check that his weapon was primed and loaded he slipped it into his belt and swung himself over the Destrier’s prow.

  “What you doing?” Graznikov asked, but Florin ignored him. All of his concentration was focused on the creaking rat’s nest of frayed rope, torn sail and chipped wood that he had begun to creep along. Below him the sea slipped past the Destrier’s prow, the spray of cool water refreshing in the heat of this moment.

  “You can’t do that!” Graznikov howled as, inch by perilous inch, the Bretonnian crawled towards the target.

  The Kislevite was still howling his protests as Florin, swinging beneath the stump of the pinnace, wrapped his legs around the timber and snagged the length of rope upon which the block hung.

  Drawing it towards him he carefully retrieved his pistol, put the muzzle to the chipped wood of the target, and closed his eyes.

  Then he pulled the trigger.

  There was deafening bang and a backwash of sudden heat. Even before he opened his eyes again Florin knew that he’d been successful. Graznikov’s storm of protests was loud enough to be heard even above the ringing in his ears.

  “Well done,” the skipper said as Florin pulled himself back on board and handed the pistol back to the waiting Kislevite.

  “No!” the Kislevite protested, stamping his foot on the deck. “No well done. Cheated.”

  “Are you calling me a cheat?” Florin asked, eyes narrowing in ersatz rage as he gripped the hilt of his belt knife.

  “No,” the Kislevite decided hastily. “No.”

  “Excellent. Well, then, let’s get things moving, shall we? Skipper, perhaps you’d let Graznikov’s men wait on the deck whilst my lot move into the upper deck?”

  “Yes, of course,” the sailor said. “Captain Graznikov, perhaps you’d gather your men?”

  “Old man Gorth gave me the upper deck.”

  “You took your chance,” the skipper waved the objection away. “You lost. Now go and prepare your men. I don’t won’t to waste any more time.”

  Florin, eager to pass on the good news, followed him. Behind him Graznikov turned to hide his rage, his face burning with hatred as he clenched the rail.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Their feet crashed down, as unified as the heart beat of a single great beast. The halberds of the first rank, the steel teeth of this newly formed monster, shot upwards, the fat blades chopping through the air as the men snapped to attention. The back rank, meanwhile, held their guns vertically in front of them.

  The sting in the beast’s tail.

  Orbrant, holding his warhammer casually, stood to one side of the formation, his eyes bright with watchful pride.

  The transformation the old warrior had wrought upon the mercenaries had been miraculous. Even now Florin could hardly believe that these soldiers were the same rabble that had greeted him on that first day aboard.

  They were still dressed in a wild and ill assorted collection of clothes, it was true, and while some of them sported elegant beards and moustaches, others were clean-shaven, or stubbled.

  But the discipline that Orbrant had instilled in them was all the uniform they needed. Now, as they stood to perfect attention on the gently rolling deck, their arms gleaming in the light of the tropical sun, Florin had to remind himself not to show too much contentment.

  After all, this was hardly the time.

  Four
bodies lay on planks that rested on the gunwales. They had been sewn into sailcloth shrouds before being carried out onto the deck. All that remained of these men’s lives were these four neat packages.

  For them the escape from the squalor of the ship’s hold had come too late. The fever that had found them there had eaten too deeply for a change of berth to make any difference. The disease had followed them hungrily to their new quarters, as mercilessly and eagerly as the rats that infested their food stores.

  For the dozenth time that morning Florin felt a pang of regret that he hadn’t been able to help them.

  It was ridiculous to feel responsible for them, he knew. He’d spent the storm in the grip of the same fever that had killed them. For whatever reason, fortune had seen fit to spare him whilst she had taken his men. That was hardly his responsibility.

  Nor was it like him to feel so bad. Guilty, even. The Florin that had come aboard the Destrier wouldn’t have given the unknown corpses a moment’s thought. Life was hard, after all, and death eager. And if it took someone else instead of you, well then, that was all to the good.

  But somehow, during the dark watches of the previous night, he had been tormented with regrets. Lying in the humid confines of his cabin, staring up into the darkness, he had fought in vain against the suspicion that he was responsible.

  If only he could have had the men moved before the storm. If only he had spoken to the skipper before they sailed, or to old man Gorth himself. If only…

  “At ease,” Orbrant’s bark, and the thud of halberd butts hitting the deck, broke Florin’s morbid chain of thought.

  “All present and correct, sir.”

  “Thank you, sergeant.” He cleared his throat. “Men, we are gathered here today to bid farewell to our comrades Gilles Chevron, Enri Batien, Michellei Vallard and Niccolo Jambon. It was your privilege to know them better than I, but I know that they were loyal comrades and true. They will be missed.”

  The men remained silent and grim-faced.

  “It is with sadness that we send their bodies into the deeps. But it will be with joy that they are remembered by those they leave behind, the joy of friendship remembered and loyalty fulfilled. Let that joy speed them on their way as we commend their souls to the great Manaan’s keeping.”

  He paused, listening to the wind sighing in the knotted rigging above him, and wondered if there was anything else to say.

  But if there was, he didn’t know what.

  “Sergeant, the salute.”

  “Back rank,” Orbrant roared.

  “Aim.”

  “Ready.”

  “Fire!”

  A dozen guns boomed as the volley thundered upwards and rolled away into the infinity of the ocean. Taking that as their cue, the men chosen to be pallbearers stepped forward and lifted the planks. There was the hiss of rough cloth on the planking, four distinct splashes, and the corpses were gone.

  “Attention,” Orbrant barked. “And—wait for it—wait for it—dismissed!”

  Florin watched the tight ranks of his company melt once more into a mob, and wondered how many more of them would follow those first four before the expedition was over.

  There was no telling how old it was. It kept no count of the passing of years, or of seasons. Its life was lived to one rhythm and one rhythm alone: hunger.

  And to follow this rhythm it was perfectly built.

  Long and sleek, as dark and sudden as a nightmare, it scythed through the lightless pressure of the depths with a lazy ease. Every line of its great bulk was as sharp as a blade, every facet of its black skin as smooth as a pearl. From the high sickle of its tail to the thousands of tiny razored teeth that lined its maw, it was beautifully, horribly, lethal.

  There was no telling where it came from. Others of its kin had been hatched from eggs or birthed from monsters such as themselves. This one, though, seemed too perfect to be natural. It was as though some insane god had crafted it as a living poem of terror, and of violence, and of constant, endless hunger.

  The only hint that it was a thing of this world and not of some troubled dream were the traces of scars that marred the perfect blackness of its skin. They came from eons past when it had struggled against vast and alien beasts, horrors that had taken their mastery of the ocean’s trenches for granted.

  Nightmares of beaks and tentacles they had grasped at it in a foolish ambition that was to spell their doom. Now all that remained of them were the cicatrices of healed wounds that punctuated their killer’s hide.

  As the leviathan slipped effortlessly through the ocean’s deepest chasms, it knew that there was nothing left that would dare to challenge it again. Its dominance of this dark universe was unasailable, its hunger unassuaged.

  When the first hint of blood drifted into its nostrils it didn’t hesitate. With a slight twist of its body, a fractional curve of its fins, it turned effortlessly away from its path and up towards the flesh that it smelled above.

  “They have come on,” Commander van Delft said as Orbrant ran the company through their drill. Under his instruction the Bretonnians formed ranks, changed formation then fired a perfectly timed volley into the sea.

  “Good work.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Florin’s chest swelled with pride.

  “I was talking to your sergeant.”

  “Ah.”

  Lundorf, ever the professional, tried not to smile. Graznikov made no such effort.

  “Looks like he knows what he’s doing,” van Delft continued, tugging on the white walrus tip of his moustache thoughtfully.

  “Yes, sir,” Florin nodded. “I hear that he used to be a warrior priest. One of those mad Sigmari…”

  He trailed off, three words too late.

  “Mad what?” the commander turned on him, eyes as cold and blue as Orbrant’s own.

  “Nothing, commander,” Florin decided. “But I believe he used to serve his god and Emperor as a warrior priest.”

  “Believe? Don’t you know?”

  “I asked him, but he didn’t want to talk about it.”

  “I thought you would have pressed him.”

  Despite himself Florin felt a snap of irritation. Ever since the commander had turned up for an unexpected inspection, he’d done everything he could to keep Florin and Graznikov off balance.

  “What the man did before he joined up is his own business.”

  “Quite right too,” the commander nodded approvingly.

  The little group lapsed into silence as Orbrant called the men to attention.

  “Well done, men,” van Delft told them. “Glad to see that not everyone on this ship has collapsed back into civilians.”

  Graznikov wisely ignored the jibe. His own men, all of whom were armed with the heavy, two-handed axes of their ancestors, had never been much for drill. Nor did he think that they needed it. As far as he was concerned the main skill a mercenary needed was to know who, not how, to fight.

  If only the tsarina’s sheriffs hadn’t been so enthusiastic back home he’d never have signed them up for anything as hare-brained as this.

  “Tell me, Graznikov,” the commander switched his unwelcome attention from the Bretonnian to the Kislevite. “Exactly why haven’t you been drilling your men, again?”

  “No room.”

  “And yet the Bretonnians seem to find room enough.”

  “My men, real warriors. With axes. No room for axes here,” Graznikov, who was at least officer enough to know when retreat would be more dangerous than staying put, folded his arms sullenly.

  “Well, if you say so,” van Delft shrugged. “But I think that you could do worse than to learn from Captain d’Artaud here.”

  “Like you say, commander.”

  Graznikov and Florin’s eyes met briefly.

  No affection was lost.

  Commander van Delft, who hadn’t become a commander by accident, pretended not to notice the hostility.

  “In fact, I’m sure that if you asked him, d’Artaud here migh
t be willing to take over for a while and train up your men.”

  “No.”

  “Just as you like, captain. We are all gentlemen of fortune, after all. I wouldn’t presume to put one captain in charge of another’s company.”

  The possibility hung uncomfortably in the air.

  “Well, I’ve seen about as much as I need to,” the commander decided. “You can dismiss the men, sergeant.”

  Orbrant turned to Florin, awaiting his confirmation of the order. Florin felt a surge of gratitude for the display of loyalty, although he was careful not to let van Delft see it.

  “Carry on, sergeant.

  “Dismissed.”

  “Yes, very impressive, your sergeant,” van Delft repeated as if to himself. “Graznikov, would you excuse us for a moment? Why not take Lundorf here and show him what sort of exercise drill you’ve implemented.”

  “Yes, commander.” the Kislevite saluted and beckoned Lundorf, happy to escape.

  Van Delft watched the two men clamber down onto the main deck and cross to the hatch. The two companies lined the gunwales on either side of them. The Bretonnians, following Orbrant’s lead, were busily sharpening their weapons. The Kislevites watched them with an idle interest.

  Van Delft studied the two groups thoughtfully.

  “I’ve been thinking about that campaign you mentioned against the orcs. The duke that led it, he was called d’Artaud too, wasn’t he? Any relation?”

  “Oh, the count you mean. Yes, he was a third cousin. On my mother’s side.”

  “I suppose that he’d have been a knight, being a Bretonnian aristocrat and all.”

  “Yes, he was,” Florin agreed.

  “Funny people, knights,” the commander mused. “Funny ideas about war. All that chivalry. Give me a clear shot and a cannon any day. We have one of those by the way.”

  “Yes sir, Lundorf mentioned it.”

  “Can’t see a knight using a youngster as bait while he hid behind a barricade.”

  “It was an ambush, sir.”

  “Sure he was a knight?”

  “Yes. I mean…”