The Tower of Living and Dying

by Anna Smith Spark

  “Of course not.” He tried to smile. “But I am afraid, for you.”

  “You don’t need to be.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  He said, “It will all be well, anyway.”

  On the shore men struggled with the barrel holding King Illyn’s corpse, loading it carefully onto the ship. The dead face still staring with its eyes and mouth open, shocked. It had all honours now, indeed, his father’s corpse. Kill him and curse him and bury him with gold and love.

  The ships hung ready, troops lined up on the decks. Matrina and her women on the shore beside the dead horse. Wind-blown faces. Black mud on their fine skirts. From the king’s ship flew the deep red banner of the Altrersyr, white cloth soaked red with blood. Bright sails, swollen and hard with the wind. The ship juddered. Moving. Marith stood in the prow wide-eyed. Pink fever flush in his cheeks.

  A great wild scream cut the air like a sword drawn. A shadow moving over them. An eagle. Black against the sun. It turned overhead, circling the fleet. Men’s eyes and the red painted eyes of the ships and the dead eyes of the sacrifice, watching it. Screams. Swooped low over the ships. High into the sky with the light flashing on its wings. Something fell from its talons, spiralling in the air, falling and twisting, landing at Marith’s feet. Soft crumple sound. The eagle screamed and was gone.

  At Marith’s feet was a foal, new born, matted with blood and fluid, shimmering inside its caul.

  A strange smell of birth and bloodshed. It twitched a moment, as though it were still alive.

  “The luck horse! The luck horse!” Voices on the ship whispering, awed. Hands moving in signs of wonder, signs against great magic and god things. “The luck horse!”

  Marith stared down at the pitiful body, up at the sky, his eyes straight unblinking into the sun. “The luck horse.” He took Thalia’s hand. “You see it? You understand?” The men on the ship bent to kneeling. Marith lifted the vile thing in his arms. “Raise it up! Raise it on the mast!”

  They tied it above the sail, sailors scrambling upwards like lizards, treasuring the burden one carried bound to his back with long fine legs flopping like he had grown some fragile leprous wings. Still it shimmered, black and rainbowed in the sun. Thalia tried to turn her head away but the only other place to look was the body of the sacrificed horse on the shore. She thought: do I understand? Any of these things?

  Under a banner of dead horses the fleet sailed fast across the bright water, red painted eyes staring hungrily ahead.

  Chapter Eight

  “The isle of Third is a fine land,

  Her corn rising high like maidens dancing,

  Her fat flocks, her fat cattle,

  Her green meadows and her green forests,

  Her rivers sweet and clear.

  But still I say nothing is more lovely,

  More joyous, more worthy of praise,

  Than a great host girded for battle,

  Bronze swords bright in the sunlight,

  Young men’s faces raised and eager,

  Red banners proud in the wind.”

  The marsh and the banks of the estuary slipped away behind them. Ahead, the dark sea and the darker smudge of Seneth Isle. The wind blew fair in the sails. Scant hours, before they made land.

  “That’s the biggest load of cock I’ve heard in days,” said Tobias.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “That bloody song. A load of crap. Third’s a shithole, and an army’s a load of ugly sweaty buggers ready to rip someone’s guts apart.”

  “Watch your mouth,” said Brand. “Third’s his kingdom, and we’re his army, and it’s bloody glorious.”

  “Oh, bloody glorious.”

  “I said watch your mouth, Immishman.”

  Fuckhead romantics. Tobias went back to looking at the water. Maerlk, the man who had started it by singing, went back to looking at his sword. He seemed quite astonished to be wearing one. Tobias kept feeling an itching need to tell him which end you held it by.

  Back on a bloody ship. Spent years successfully avoiding ships. Never get involved in amphibious warfare. One of Skie’s old maxims. Suddenly made a hell of a lot of sense. Just never, Tobias. One thing this company’ll never bloody do.

  Never do a lot of the things he’d somehow done in the last little while.

  It was all cloudy in his mind, making him irritable. He’d hated the king, once. Before he realized something. Something. And now the great coming battle, to decide who got the crown and got to say he was better and everyone loved him more. He hadn’t wanted the king to win, once. Had wanted … something else for him. Kind of hard to remember what. Just still a nagging sense of pointlessness, that there was no real reason for any of this. That he should just turn around. Run.

  A little house and a girl to clean it and a pint of Immish gold of an evening and a fat soft gut. That had been … been a really good good idea he couldn’t quite shake. He’d done a bad thing, hadn’t he? Something bad. To the king. Hadn’t wanted … something to happen.

  He looked across the water and the king was there, standing at the prow of his ship, looking straight ahead. So tiny, a stick of black with a red cloak, maybe a flash of light where his crown was, but you knew him. They all knew him, even without seeing him. The ships moved slightly, changing formation; the figure was gone. Light snow furring the deck, making it slippery. Hands cold and raw on the hilts of their swords. He’s the king. We’ll make him king. His kingdom and his army.

  Bloody glorious! Yeah!

  Third was still an ugly freezing damp shithole, though. And his army was still a load of ugly sweaty buggers ready to rip someone’s guts apart. Bloody wounds and oozing sores glorious.

  Yeah.

  Seneth was coming properly into sight, grey rocks and green hills rising up clear ahead of them, blurred in the snow. Huddles of houses down on the shoreline; you could even see the smoke of hearth fires. Didn’t look any different to Third.

  Tobias had kind of expected they’d be making land soonish, camp for the night and then march. Instead, the ships turned, moving north following the line of the coast, the king’s ship taking position at the front. Another hour’s sailing, slow in a weak wind. The snow had stopped, thank the gods. But still bloody cold. Rations of bread and meat and beer handed out, they ate crouched on the deck, eyes on the shore. Could feel people on the shore looking back. A couple of fishing boats sailing panicked before them, tacking and darting to get away. An army looks like a dragon to peasant men, Tobias thought watching them. Gods alone know what an army of ships must look like, when you’re out on the dark pitiless sea. They sailed on, then a shout came from one of the ships ahead of them, orders relayed back whipping on the wind, voices calling like the gulls, the sound of the waves slapping against the hull, the men craning to hear.

  “Furl the sails! To oars!”

  A movement of men to the mast, a great creak of canvas and rope thrashing like snakes. A space in the sky where the sail had been, the mast standing useless like a dead winter tree, rough splintered wood with the bowsprit across it like wide-spread arms. Like that stupid sodding stake they stuck the stupid sodding dead horse on. Oars striking out into the water. The sound of the ship now the crunch and crack of men’s bones.

  “Strike the drums! To arms!”

  So they were moving much more slowly now, crawling along with the land bedside them, a high rugged headland, harsh black rocks. Something looking from the top of the cliff a moment, a flash of white. And then the ships turned and the land fell away, and before them was a great bay with smooth clear water, the towers and roofs of a town rising up behind a thick harbour wall, a crowd of black ships.

  The King of the White Isles said, “We go straight to Morr Town. Land at harbour.”

  Lord Bemann said, “They’ll be waiting for us. Closed the harbour. Have ships out. We need to land in the wilds, come to Malth Elelane overland. Somewhere they can’t predict.”

  The King of the White Isles said, “
I am their king. I am Lord of Malth Elelane. I will not creep into my own home. Morr Town will open her gates and her harbour to me gladly.”

  Lord Fiolt said, “My Lord King … Malth Elelane is indeed yours. But …”

  Lord Stansel said, “What he means, My Lord King, is that sailing straight into Morr Bay would be … unwise.”

  Lord Fiolt said, “What I mean, Marith, is that sailing straight into Morr Bay would be suicide.”

  The King of the White Isles said, “Malth Elelane is mine. Morr Town is mine. She will open her gates and her harbour to me. She will.”

  Swords ready. The sound of the waves slapping against the hull. Drumming. Gulls.

  Oh fuck, Tobias thought, watching the line of ships grow nearer.

  Tiothlyn’s ships were moving towards them, the same black ships with red painted staring eyes. The drums coming up from them also, the same dull beat to keep the oarsmen steady, loud over the water calling the oarsmen to their work. The only sound they could hear in the world. The dark water between the two lines narrowed. Trumpets began to blow in the ships and on the shore. Trying to frighten the other side off. But there was nowhere for either other side to go. The town, and the cliffs, and the sea. In the sea things were beginning to move and surface, drawn by the drums.

  “Archers: draw!”

  “Archers: loose!”

  A flurry of arrows from the leading ships. Beautiful, like the shuttle of a loom. But too early: they fell short, floating on the water, bobbing on the waves. Tiothlyn’s men jeered. We meant that to happen, we’re just doing this to taunt them. Aren’t we? The figure of the king standing in the prow of the first ship with the sunlight on his silver crown. He is death. He is ruin. He is Amrath reborn. He will be victorious. The dead body of the luck horse, the sky’s offering, hangs from the mast as a sign. The enemy’s ships are fewer. Weaker. Bloody glorious. Bloody victorious. Kill and kill and kill until the water heaves with bleeding. Kill them all! But the arrows float on the water, bobbing on the waves. Sticks. Long green fingers reached and pulled one under, snapped it. Flaccid fucking sticks. We meant to do that. Miss everyone. Didn’t we?

  An enemy arrow clattered onto the deck of Tobias’s ship. Hissing. Burning. Green. Fire. Green tendrils rushing across the planks, scouring channels as they went.

  Oh gods and demons, not again. Not again. Not a-fucking-gain.

  “Earth! Get earth on it! Now!” Men ran forward, throwing mud from a barrel. The flames died in a choking sputter, stinking wet smoke for a moment and then gone. Another arrow shot past, dripping flames. Then a rock. Dripping flames.

  Salt-soaked pitch-soaked well-seasoned damp wood is … astonishing when it explodes.

  Two more rocks: the ship jolted wildly as waves hit it from both sides. Boiling waves. Green waves. On fire waves. The ship’s timbers smelled kind of funny, hot like singed wood. The hull was beginning to smoke.

  So, what, King Marith just clean forgot Morr Town had two massive banefire shooting trebuchets set up on the harbour in the entirely unlikely event anyone ever decided to invade an island kingdom by sea?

  Or never noticed them?

  Thought they were purely decorative?

  “Archers: draw!”

  “Archers: loose!”

  Patches of green twisted on the water, fighting with it, the sea churning and boiling at this unnatural thing searing into it, fire it cannot quench, steam rising with a hiss of clenched teeth. The ship the rock had hit was sinking almost to the mast top, spewing out steam and fire and dead men. The mast of another ship was burning, crackling and hissing, sparks of salt and the crack of old wood, green and blue flames. Gnawed apart, swaying as the banefire tunnelled into its veins.

  “The oarsmen! Aim for the oarsmen!”

  Another shower of banefire arrows. Another volley of burning rocks. More frantic scrabbling with mud until the flames died. The burning mast came down, shattering the side of its ship. Still burning. The stricken ship tilted down into the water. Long fine fingers like coiled skin reaching up for it, pulling. Men leapt screaming into the sea, then screamed louder and began frantically trying to crawl back onto the burning ship. The water was stirring. Thrashing about. Something down there. Screams. Men’s arms trying to cling to anything to get out. A whirlpool, and for a moment maybe you saw eyes. A fountain of blood shot up from the water, bits of flesh and bone bobbing. Higher than the masts of the ships. A nasty crack that might be someone’s spine breaking. A sound like the gnashing of giant teeth. A man with another man’s innards floating round his neck, as though some kind soul had thrown him a rope. Actually he did seem to think some kind soul had thrown him a rope, from the way he hung on a moment before he realized what it was and screamed and let go and something pulled him under. Bubbles. Then no bubbles. Then another fountain of blood. Screams.

  Still they were pressing slowly forward, another volley of arrows from each side crossing each other in the sky, the sea on fire, voices in the sea laughing. Long fine fingers probing the planks of the hull. The king in his silver crown.

  More ships. We’ve still got more ships. Stronger men.

  “Archers: draw!”

  “Archers: loose!”

  “The oarsmen! Aim for the oarsmen!”

  The two fleets finally came together, the first ships meeting, men screamed and the voices in the water laughed. Ramming each other, swords clashing. Like a cavalry charge, really, Tobias saw then. Two big things driven straight at each other in the desperate hope one breaks. The red eyes of the ships staring at each other, and suddenly the eyes were alive, the ships were dragon things in the water, twisting and fighting, and he saw that the men didn’t control them, the ships were fighting among themselves, taking their crews with them down into the water, enjoying it as they fought. The planks of Tobias’s ship groaned as it surged forward. Came up alongside one of Tiothlyn’s ships, rushing fast towards them, there was a channel between them in the water and then the ships met and men were fighting across the gap trying to board, lashing out with swords, the oars meshing and striking together, each shoving at the other ship, trying to pull it in and push it away. Like a beast with too many legs, scrabbling at itself.

  Tobias swung his sword at the figures facing him. Very little art to this with the world moving and the men really too far away to hit. The deck tipped, suddenly he was near enough, got a man on the arm. Blood dripped into the water. A crash as the two ships collided. He was fencing for a moment with the man he’d just injured, up very close, got hit himself on the shoulder leaving a hard pain through his armour, then the ships moved apart again and he was looking across grey water at his opponent, their swords flailing at each other across the gap. Again like a thing with too many legs, like a louse on its back scrabbling.

  Maerlk shouted as the ships moved, lost his balance, fell. His head was visible in the churning water. Blood in the water. Long fingers, curling around his legs. Screaming like someone might stop to throw him a rope. The ships came together. He was gone between them, wood closing over him like doors shutting, trying to claw his way up through the hull, buried alive in the dark as he drowned.

  “In oars! Board her!” The men scrambling across the sides. A crack of wood as an oar was crushed between them, the rest pulled back up into the body of the ship. Tobias leapt and scrambled with the others, got across, picked up fighting again with the man he’d left off before Maerlk died. Brand was across too, pushing hard at an enemy soldier, blood on his face, smiling. Never get involved in amphibious warfare. Never. Never. Never. Just don’t. The bloke Tobias was fighting almost got him in the neck and Tobias moved backwards and whacked his leg on an oar and suddenly he was up against the side of the ship and there really wasn’t anywhere to go that wasn’t either into a sword blade or into the sea. This was not fun fighting. This was fucking nightmare fighting. This was about the worst fighting Tobias could remember, possibly barring the dragon, or the Sorlostian Imperial Palace, or the first battle of Malth Salene, or …
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br />   Or pretty much anything involving King Marith. The sea was on fire. The ships were on fire. The ships were sinking. The trebuchets were slinging stones around not really caring which side they hit so long as they hit something so that it died. Men were thrashing about in the water, weighed down by their armour, and you could see the arms reaching round their necks to pull them down. Crunching teeth. Hot blood.

  Pretty much anything involving King Marith …

  The ship jerked and moved of its own accord, swinging round, the ship they had come from wedged into it locked by oars and ropes and dead men’s bodies; for a moment he saw King Marith on his own ship, fighting, shining, his sword flashing silver-white.

  Pretty much anything involving King Marith.

  The snow was getting heavier, settling on the deck, making it slippery, hissing and steaming where patches of banefire still burned. Can’t see. Snow and smoke and I can’t bloody see. They shouldn’t have engaged us, Tobias thought. Should have just stood back and shot green fire at us until we were all floating in the sea with our skin melting off our faces, nicely cooked. He fought on relentlessly with gritted teeth. Just survive. Just survive. He slipped on the wet wood of the deck, almost fell, got his balance back, killed someone.

  The ships looked like wrestlers tussling together. It looked like a tavern brawl, these vast dark shapes gripping, moving, shoving, giving way, coming together again. Cheers and screams one against the other. Impossible to tell who was winning or losing, except that Tobias had a strong sudden feeling that they were losing on this one ship. Brand seemed to be fighting with the wrong hand and his right hand was a mass of blood. Maerlk had drowned lifetimes ago. Lots of other soldiers with them fighting but there seemed to be a lot more trying to fight them off. A bloke called Janis went over the side, one of the enemy’s lot went down too, another two came at Tobias together seeing him as a good dangerous threat. Definitely seemed to be more of them.

  This was hard. Getting really fucking hard. He was getting tired, the voyage wearing on him. Hacked and parried and the men he was up against were just better than he was. Maybe not on a good day. Maybe certainly not on a good day, rested and ready on dry land with the confidence of what he was doing at his back. But not after everything else. Not like this here.