Darkening Skies (The Hadrumal Crisis)

by McKenna Juliet E.

  Mellitha shook her head, in dismay rather than denial. ‘We must stop this getting any worse.’

  ‘And quickly.’ Jilseth flinched as a handful of Aldabreshi attacked a hapless fire gang.

  Several Relshazri reeled away clutching spurting cuts. One fell to his knees, mouth gaping in a silent scream as he clutched the stump of his severed hand.

  Watchmen immediately raced to their aid. The first Aldabreshi to stand his ground was skewered by a pole arm’s needle-point driven deep into his chest. The next was felled by a slicing blade sweeping low to smash his knees. The butt of the weapon finished him off, crushing one eye socket into bloody splinters.

  Jilseth found the carnage all the more ghastly for unfolding in the utter quiet of elemental silence.

  ‘No one must suspect magic,’ Velindre insisted.

  ‘There’s no law forbidding us here,’ Jilseth protested, ‘and the Archmage—’

  Mellitha cut her short. ‘We cannot have the Archipelagans believing that the Magistracy let wizards loose on them.’

  ‘Quite so.’ Velindre’s eyes were darting this way and that. ‘Jilseth, blunt blades and offer some shield to those being attacked. I’ll stifle the fires until the Relshazri can get through to douse them.’

  Before she could hear what Mellitha was supposed to do, Jilseth was deafened by the maelstrom of yells and abuse. She staggered backwards into the unyielding door of a building. To her relief, the other two magewoman followed her unintentional lead into that precarious shelter.

  Hastily gathering her wits, Jilseth was relieved to see that most of the Aldabreshi had recovered their senses sufficiently not to attack the Relshazri without direct provocation.

  Though the Archipelagans were adamant that the galleys should burn. They drew up into haphazard ranks all along the waterfront. Any attempt by the watchmen to force a path for a fire pump prompted savage retaliation.

  Jilseth focused on the Archipelagans’ single-edged swords, each one razor sharp. It was the work of a moment to smooth her magic along the metal. Now the blades would bruise and perhaps cut flesh but no longer slice clean through bone.

  For an instant, she lingered, her affinity flowing through the intricacy of the weapons’ steel. These layers upon layers of wafer-thin metal were quite unlike the watered silk patterns that she had felt in mainland swords.

  She threw off the distraction, turning instead to the closest handcart. The fire gang cowered behind a handful of watchmen. Three Aldabreshi attacked; intent on destroying the pump itself. The first fell, betrayed by a slick of blood. As he sprawled headlong, the second lost his footing and then the third.

  Jilseth’s wizard sight caught fugitive glimpses of emerald magelight all along the dockside as men were thrown off balance by the gore underfoot. Not so obviously as to look ridiculous or, worse, suspicious, but sufficient to rob their sword strokes of fatal effect if not deadly purpose.

  A Relshazri sergeant drove his men forward to seize that breach in the Aldabreshin line. More watchmen rushed to support them, shoulder to shoulder with their pole-arms jabbing and stabbing, their longer reach defying Archipelagan swords.

  The Relshazri wedge drove through to the edge of the quay. The men divided into two resolute lines, back to back and forcing the Aldabreshi to retreat step by step. The watchmen found firm footing while the islanders slipped and stumbled.

  Now solid bulwarks guarded the fire pump’s path to the waterside. The watchmen gave the fire gang no choice but to advance. Despite all the frantic Aldabreshin efforts, the handcart rattled to the water’s edge.

  A swift tug of Jilseth’s magic and the water serpent’s leather loops obediently uncoiled when the sweating pump master grabbed them. As the tail end fell down from the quayside into the harbour, she felt the surge of Mellitha’s affinity sending seawater soaring up into the pump.

  As soon as the gang started hauling the side bars up and down, Jilseth turned her attention to the brass valves between the pump and the serpent’s gaping jaws. If the pump master ever wondered at how easily the stiff metal turned under his hands, he could put it down to his own strength born of terror.

  Water spewed from the brass serpent’s mouth, arcing upwards to fall down into the midst of the galley. Seeing Velindre’s sparkling magecraft cleave a path through the air for the jet itself driven on by Mellitha’s wizardry, Jilseth had no doubt that the fires would quickly be quenched.

  She turned her attention back to blunting the ire of those still intent on mayhem. She threaded her wizardry through the links of their armour. Though their chainmail had been wrought of fine steel, now it burdened the wearers like lead. Their swords weighed twice and thrice as much in their weary hands. Exhaustion would force the men to a standstill.

  Once again, sudden silence left her momentarily dizzy.

  ‘Those fires won’t be rekindled.’ Velindre’s shimmering lips curved in a cold smile.

  ‘We’d better make haste home.’ Mellitha’s water affinity had coloured the invisibility cloaking her almost turquoise after all her exertions. ‘I’ll be summoned by the Magistracy before the next chime.’ She turned her glittering gaze on Jilseth. ‘You had better come with me as Hadrumal’s envoy.’

  ‘I can’t claim that office,’ she protested.

  ‘Why not?’ Velindre challenged her. ‘Planir sent you here and you’ve just proved your worth as a wizard. There’s no need for any more nonsense about whether or not you can control your affinity.’

  ‘I—’ Jilseth stared at the hard-faced magewoman. There was no denying that she had forgotten all her doubts amid this chaos. That she had worked her magic with the ease and competence which she had truly feared was lost.

  She also realised that she was rank with sweat and though translucent as she was thanks to Velindre’s wizardry, she could see her gown was spattered with tiny dark stains. It was scant comfort to see the other two magewomen were equally dishevelled.

  Velindre’s iridescent eyes were unreadable through the veil of the magic. ‘I know what it’s like to have drained your magic to such an extent that you fear it will never return.’

  ‘Enough.’ Mellitha silenced them both with upraised hands. ‘We must tell Planir what’s transpired here as soon as the Magistrates are done with us.’

  ‘I will be discovered in the gem-cutters’ quarter,’ Velindre announced, ‘ready to be astonished by such tales of anarchy along the dockside. Bespeak me when you’ve placated the Magistrates. We should speak to Planir together.’

  She vanished from the quayside between one step and the next.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Black Turtle Isle

  In the domain of Nahik Jarir

  ‘GET THEM ALL together.’ Anskal roused Hosh with a kick.

  Hosh had already been rolling away. Sleeping in the furthest pavilion’s entrance hall, he stirred whenever a sand-coloured lizard scuttled up the walls or a wind-blown leaf scraped along the terrace outside.

  He had a comfortable bed now; a pile of three cotton-stuffed palliasses purloined from Archipelagan rope-strung bed frames. For the present, a single light quilt sufficed but come winter, he could have all the coverlets he might want. Not that he expected to be alive come winter.

  ‘Yes, my lord mage.’ He rubbed the remnants of sleep from his eyes with his other hand.

  He winced at the insidious tenderness beneath the dent in his face. The toothless side of his upper jaw felt puffy and sore to his probing tongue and the taste in his mouth on waking grew more vile each successive morning. But there was nothing to be done about that without Imais and her herbal concoctions.

  Hosh pulled his cotton tunic over his head and retied the drawstring of his trousers which he’d loosened for sleep. If something happened in the night, he wasn’t going to Saedrin’s door bare-arsed.

  As he hurried down the terrace steps Anskal shouted an afterthought. ‘Tell them to bring food!’

  ‘Yes, my lord mage.’ As Hosh raised his hand in acknowledgemen
t, he saw movement at a window beneath the shady eaves of the closest dwelling.

  Those shutters stayed wide open, day and night. Six Archipelagans had claimed that pavilion, all erstwhile swordsmen from the corsair triremes. Standing sentry turn by turn, they kept a close eye on Anskal from one sunset to the next.

  Hosh headed for the steps, fringed with lush green grass where deep rooted tufts formerly crushed by trampling feet had been renewed by the rains.

  ‘That’s close enough, broken face.’ A corsair appeared up on the black stone platform, more alert than hostile. ‘What do you want?’

  Hosh jerked his head back towards the furthest pavilion. ‘He wants you all to join him. Bring something for breakfast.’

  The corsair looked warily across the open space. ‘What does he want?’

  Hosh shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  He would never have dared to answer the swordsman so carelessly without his magical arm ring. The Archipelagan wore two swords and three daggers which Hosh could see, never mind whatever lesser blades the man had surely concealed about himself.

  These erstwhile raiders had scoured all the abandoned pavilions for weapons. Each man had probably amassed as many blades as the rest of these people trapped in the anchorage could have put together between them.

  ‘We will come.’ The raider squared his bare bronzed shoulders as though readying himself for the challenge.

  Archipelagan born by his speech, he clearly had mainland forebears on both sides of his lineage to bequeath him that complexion. His new comrades’ colouring ranged from ebony to a sallow tan.

  ‘Thank you.’ As Hosh headed for the next pavilion, he heard the bronzed swordsman calling out to rouse his allies.

  There was no grass growing around this next set of steps. These five surviving women had scoured all encroaching vegetation away, just as they had thrown open all their chosen pavilion’s shutters and doors when they claimed it. They weren’t interested in keeping watch though, but in sweeping away the wind-blown dust and broken discards from Anskal’s earlier plundering.

  Of course there had been more of the women then. Nine, all told. One in four of the mageborn.

  Was that usual, Hosh had wondered, on that other island of Hadrumal? He had so little knowledge of magecraft, though he did recall tavern tales which spoke of lady wizards.

  This morning, their doors and shutters were tight closed.

  ‘Good day to you!’ As Hosh waited for a response, he looked over towards the other pavilions, beyond the blasted wreckage of blind Grewa’s house.

  A handful of Archipelagan slaves now squatted in the Reef Eagle’s master’s home. He had seen them beseech the women or the swordsmen to give them some task to earn their favour.

  Hosh could see the sense of staying on good terms with such heavily armed warriors. He wondered what the slaves thought they might get from the women. There’d been no sign that the remaining handful were willing to cook, clean or launder for anyone but themselves.

  As for any other services, Anskal had shown no sign of interest in spreading their thighs—

  ‘What do you want here?’

  It wasn’t one of the women opening a window up above. One of the mainlanders had appeared around the corner of the pavilion’s broad stone foundation.

  A second followed, growling. ‘We get first split, shit-face.’

  The third man simply leered, one hand already inside his loosened trews, trifling with his stick and stones.

  At first Hosh had found these three men’s behaviour as incomprehensible as their accents. Then he overheard the two Lescari lads condemning them as mercenaries. Lice sucking the blood of honest men in their homeland’s recent strife. This last craven remnant of some defeated warband had evidently been captured in battle and sold down the river to the Relshazri slave markets.

  Hosh backed away, empty hands raised. ‘I came to tell you that you’re wanted over yonder.’ He gestured towards Anskal’s pavilion. ‘He won’t like to be kept waiting,’ he warned.

  The first mercenary grinned. ‘He can wait.’ He brandished a fist at Hosh, a thick brass ring catching the morning light. ‘What’s he going to do? Flog us for being tardy?

  The other two nodded in comfortable agreement.

  Hosh took another step back. ‘I’m only the messenger.’

  ‘Then take him this message.’ The first mercenary took a menacing step. ‘We’ll come when we’re good and ready.’

  ‘I will.’ As Hosh continued retreating, the three mercenaries went up the stone steps to contemplate the pavilion door.

  Hosh looked frantically towards the pavilion where the other mainlanders had chosen to shelter; the two Lescari militiamen and four from Ensaimin with the weathered skin and hard muscles of lifelong seamen.

  He heard splintering wood up above as a shutter was ripped open. A woman screamed. Another cursed.

  Hosh turned tail and ran to Anskal’s pavilion. He scrambled up the steps, slipping onto hands and knees in his haste.

  The Mandarkin was standing in the doorway, an uncorked bottle in one hand.

  ‘You must do something!’ Hosh point a shaking hand at the women’s pavilion, at the dark void of the broken window where the mercenaries had forced their way in. The women’s shrieks and curses rang through the clear air.

  Anskal smiled lazily. ‘It is none of my affair.’

  Hosh gaped at him.

  The Mandarkin merely shrugged, taking a long swallow of his palm wine.

  As Hosh whirled around, movement caught his eye on the terrace outside the Aldabreshin raiders’ pavilion. All six men had emerged, armed and armoured, looking in the direction of the women’s house. Even at this distance, Hosh could see they were appalled.

  He ran down the steps and across the beaten earth. ‘You must do something! This isn’t right!’

  He couldn’t tell if they had heard him. Regardless, they were already making their way down their own pavilion’s stair. Falling instinctively into step, every man drew a blade. They were all ready to defend each other, their instincts born of years of survival amid deadly peril.

  Hosh hesitated. He had no sword, unless he recovered the one he had hidden. If he did, what help could he offer those women that a handful and more of expert warriors couldn’t?

  Before he could take another step, another scream soared above the muffled sobbing inside the women’s house. Hosh only had an instant to realise that was a man’s screech cut brutally short.

  Surprise equal to his own halted the advancing Aldabreshi. They stopped, blades ready, as tense as hunting dogs.

  Hosh saw a man inside the building stumbling backwards towards the broken-shuttered window. He was swearing in the vilest terms to ever soil a Tormalin tongue. The low sill caught him behind the knees and he fell out on to the terrace.

  Two women leaped through the window after him. One landed to kneel on the mercenary’s chest, beating him around the head and face with already bloodied fists. Hosh didn’t need to understand her dialect to know she was cursing him to some unspeakable torment. The man flailed ineffectual hands, his retching indicating that she had already struck a mighty blow to his manhood.

  The second woman seized the mercenary’s ears. She lifted his head to smash it down on the unforgiving stones. Even after he went limp, Hosh expected her to continue until the man’s brain began leaking out of his ears. Instead, the woman turned her attention to the man’s hand. He had a melon knife. She took it and ripped it across the senseless man’s throat. Springing to her feet, she vaulted the window sill with her sister in arms following her back into the building.

  That spurred the Aldabreshin raiders to action. As they ran for the pavilion and up the steps, Hosh followed. As he reached the terrace, he saw the other mainlanders approaching, all open mouthed at this commotion. The former slaves dithered on the Reef Eagle pavilion’s terrace.

  One of the raiders kicked in the women’s door with a well-practised foot. He immediately stepped backwa
rds, throwing his sword away and raising empty hands. At his sharp command, all the other Aldabreshi sheathed their blades and spread their own arms wide. All the men retreated to the precipitous edge of the terrace.

  Left alone at the top of the stair Hosh could see into the pavilion’s entrance hall. The woman with the melon knife stood over the second man she had killed. The first mercenary who had ripped open the shutter lay sprawled on his back. His tunic was rucked up and his trews were bunched around his ankles. Loops of bowel protruded from the ragged gash across his naked belly.

  Another woman stood in the inner doorway. She was all but naked, her bitten breasts bare for all to see. Her loose tunic had been torn from hem to neck by her attacker and her skirt or trews were nowhere to be seen. Her own violated blood trickled down her inner thighs. Tears from one swelling eye mingled with blood trickling from her split lip.

  Undaunted, she took a step forward and brandished a knife at Hosh. ‘You want to try your luck with us?’

  Another woman appeared in the doorway, carrying a cleaver smeared with gore in one hand and a severed head in the other. Hosh recognised the man who’d been polishing up his stick in anticipation of beating these women into submission.

  ‘Enter and be welcome.’ Her smile was as friendly as one of the sharks who followed the galleys.

  ‘If you dare.’ The fifth woman emerged from a doorway to the rear of the hall. She carried a kitchen blade as well and looked just as eager to use it.

  ‘I don’t want—’ Hosh took two steps back in hasty denial.

  ‘Then leave us be!’ The woman with the cleaver hurled the heavy steel at him.

  Hosh was ready to jump and risk the drop rather than try escaping down the stairs. Instead, a shove of sapphire magelight sent the cleaver skidding across the black stones. Every man and woman recoiled from the brutal burst of wizardly radiance.

  Anskal stepped out of the fading glare. ‘So now you see.’ He smiled with vicious satisfaction. ‘Magebirth does not save you from attack. Yet working together, the weakest can defeat lustful fools.’ He acknowledged the women with something approaching a nod of respect. ‘Especially those brave enough to wait until such a fool is rutting like a fevered dog.’