Half a moment later, the toe of his sandal caught an edge and he too was down, briefly, before leaping up and moving forward out of sheer terror. Cries below told him that the others were now joining the chase. The darkness of the passage gave way to faint light. They had shoved torches into the iron wall sconces as they had descended and these lit his way to the top. After a hundred stone steps he burst into the antechamber, gasping for breath, his mind racing: hide or run? Hide where? Run where? He clutched at his sides, eyes searching the room. Run.
He reached the large black oaken door that led to the vaulted passage back to the monastery. His left hand was covered in blood, palm stripped of skin from when he had tripped below. Breaths came in great heaves as he opened the door and went into the passageway. There were two doors here. One led back to the centre of the monastery and the dormitories, the other out to the physik gardens. He darted to the door that led to the dormitories. Smearing his shaking, bloodied hand on the door frame, he left that door ajar and ran not through it but instead back into the passage and to the door that led to the gardens. Using his unbloodied right hand, he pulled the door open. As soon as he had passed through the threshold he slammed the door shut with his back.
The warm rays of the summer sun struck him full on the face even as his nostrils filled with the scent of rosemary. But the horrors below still filled his mind’s eye.
I have seen Saint Elded, the Lawgiver and prophet of the Lord. And I am a dead man for doing so.
And he ran again.
Two
TO BE SURE, Valdur was not a happy kingdom. Five fractious duchies, three free cities, and a royal enclave not much bigger than a market town made the prospects for prosperity and concordia rather slim. Nor did it help that the king of Valdur was a distracted, vain, and rather stupid man, content to let the dukes and high stewards of the land conspire and scheme.
But at least he has me, thought Captain Danamis as he stood at the taffrail of his vessel looking out onto the rocky headland just over a league and a half away to the north. Nicolo Danamis, more than a pirate and less than a prince, commanded a sizeable fleet which had come into his hands as a result of inheritance, brashness bordering on insolence, and a smidgen of blind luck. And this fleet, a collection of great carracks, caravels, and cogs, was now the largest in Valdur. His flagship, Royal Grace, a heavy three-masted carrack built before he was born, was the mightiest of the fleet. Her stout oaken hull, broad and apple-cheeked at the bow, carried sixty sailors and over two-hundred soldiers. This vessel, and her sisters, gave some semblance of spine to a weak king. The royal bargain struck with the Palestrian pirates had survived more than twenty years. Signed between Danamis’s father Valerian and Sempronius II in the royal city of Perusia when the king was new to the throne, the deal had made the pirates wealthy, the king secure, and raiders from the Southlands wary to linger in Valdurian waters.
It would be unseemly for the king of Valdur to depend solely upon a mercenary fleet, and for that reason the king maintained a modest fleet of his own—twenty narrow-hulled and centipede-like galleys propelled by oars nearly as long as the ship itself. Not the idea of Captain Danamis, but a good one nonetheless as those ships required no wind to move and only the sinews of a few hundred miserable rowers, most harvested from the prisons of the land. No good in rough open sea but useful in coastal waters where a dash of speed and a good ram from a beaked prow could hole a sailing vessel with terrifying ease.
As the mild west wind blew across the sterncastle, riffling the full sleeves of his white cambric shirt, Danamis felt rather pleased even if the rest of the kingdom was miserable. He had the royal warrant giving him stewardship of the port of Palestro, he held a commission as king’s admiral, and he had no shortage of comely women or coin of the realm. This day, he had even more reason to be in good spirits. Today was the appointed day to meet with his most lucrative trading partners. A transaction that would take place in open sea.
He turned his head at the sound of the ship’s master, who stood centre on the main deck, barking orders to seamen who were scrambling in the rigging to stow canvas fore and aft. Sweating soldiers in their studded and quilted jerkins, steel sallet helms upon their heads, scuttled across the deck bearing breech pieces charged with black powder for the swivel guns perched on the gunwales. Higher up, in the towering fo’c’sle, painted in garish red and green, crossbowmen readied their weapons, arms straining as they hauled on the drawstrings. All as it should be, he thought. The trade always went smoothly but better to be sure with a readied volley of arrows or good-sized stone shot.
Nico Danamis was dark. Dark because his mother was swarthy and because he had been tanned since a boy, it was undoubtedly a combination of the two. Long black ringlets surrounded his olive face, a face surmounted by a strong nose and outlined by a jaw that lightly carried a thin chinstrap of a beard. His blue-grey eyes, the colour of a winter sea, were arresting in a face so brown and so hawk-like. He had been born to the sea, and to command. Some said this he wore too proudly. It was a quality Danamis himself was sometimes aware of, when in quieter moments a mocking inner voice would chip away at him. But battle had never even once unmanned him. He’d taken more than a few punches, an arrow in the hip and a sword cut to his arm that now was marked by a seared gulley of a scar. Yet in his heart, he knew he had two things counting against him. First, he was too young, and though he did not know exactly when he was born, he was the youngest commander the fleet had ever seen. Second, he knew that his father’s legacy to him—ships, command, money, and even the rule of Palestro itself—was not the result of his arduous labours, but rather, the outcome of tragic happenstance. One day his father had sailed off to explore the south seas and had never come back. And for six years Danamis had held the fleet together and upheld the rule in his father’s name. But there were those who never agreed with that arrangement and dark rumour was never far from his ear. But today, the sun bathing all in warm rays, the winds light and favourable, and his precious cargo waiting to be offloaded, today was a day to revel in.
Danamis turned back to the railing and watched as a small boat pulled away from the nearby carrack Firedrake, oars rapidly rising and dipping, making its way towards his ship. Even at this distance he could see the gleaming bald pate of the passenger shining like a beacon. He smiled to himself. Suppose I’d better steel myself for an endless night of hard drinking and twice-told tales.
“Captain, we’re on the banks now and ready to drop anchor.” It was Gregorvero, the ship’s master and his second-in-command, standing at his shoulder. “Nico? This is the place, is it not?”
Danamis turned, almost absently, and gave his friend a weak smile. He looked out to starboard to check their distance from Nods Rock, an uninhabited island and its smaller siblings which themselves lay some seven leagues from the shores of Valdur. They were just level with the largest of the islets, a roiling cloud of seabirds swirling around its white cliffs. “Aye, this is the spot. Drop anchor when you’re ready.” Gregorvero nodded and turned for the stairs down to the main deck. Danamis called after him. “And Gregor, summon me the captains of the castles when you get below.”
Already descending, Gregorvero managed to whirl around smartly to face his captain, no small feat given his ample bulk. “I’ll toss them up over the rail to you if I have to!” He grinned broadly at Danamis but still he felt the tickle of a small but persistent niggle at the back of his head. A captain distracted was a captain not in command.
“THERE’S THE BOY! There’s my bonny buccaneer!” Danamis found himself briefly in the grip of a bear then found himself grasped on both sides of his face while his head was rattled like a dicing cup. Giacomo Tetch released Danamis then tenderly placed both his hands on the younger man’s shoulders while he spoke.
“It will be a good haul today, my boy! I feel it in my bones. My very bones, sir.” The commander of Firedrake smiled broadly. “Any sign of them yet? Half my crew jabbering away like children. All eager for a look
-see.” He leaned back and beheld Danamis. “By God you look well, sir!”
Danamis clapped a hand on Tetch’s shoulder in return, his face breaking into a grin. “Well met, uncle! We are waiting on Salamander. She fell behind but is catching us up fast.”
Captain Tetch shook his head. “Bassinio ought to throw his ship’s master over the side. He’s never been a judge of windage. Too damned lenient with his crew. Be the death of him it will.” Tetch wiped the sweat from his tanned scalp and smoothed his pointed chin beard, bright ginger red. This day his right eye socket held his alabaster eye, milky white and cold, staring. Before battle was joined, he would swap it out for one of red marble, something that usually gave a charging enemy pause. Just long enough for Tetch to run a sword through him.
Tetch was not his uncle. But Danamis had called him that since he was a boy. Captain Giacomo Tetch had been his father’s lieutenant and only by getting himself a broken leg had he avoided the ill-fated expedition that had claimed the life of Danamis’s father. He was now vice-admiral of the flotilla, sworn to uphold the law laid down by House Danamis, father and son.
“What news in Palestro? And has our friend the Duke of Torinia and his overfed knights been busy along the border?”
Tetch snorted. “Bah! They’re still making noise but haven’t tried having much of a go in the past month. The Duke knows better than to pick a fight now. And what of you in the past three weeks? How have you fared?”
“Chased two Southland raiders out of our waters and well down their own coast. Took one and burned it but they had bugger-all in their hold for all our trouble.”
Tetch grinned. “Aye, well, will give the one that got away something to think about will it not?”
“Sail Ho!” Both men followed the gesturing arm of the lookout to see a ship well-up on the horizon to their stern.
“Well, shit, we know who that is. They should rename her Snail, eh?” Tetch shook his head in disgust.
Danamis smiled and tutted. “Easy, uncle, give a sea brother some grace. The winds may have shifted on them.”
“Maybe you’re too lenient,” said Tetch, wagging a finger. His blackened pegs of teeth looked so rotten that Danamis wondered how he managed to eat his meat.
“Not lenient, uncle. Only reasoned. And prudent.”
Tetch nodded, his one good eye meeting Danamis’s regard; a look of mild, grudging apology. A gust picked up and inflated the red and white striped canvas tilt that shielded the stern deck from the sun. It rippled and flapped, lines creaking. Two soldiers came up the ladder and approached, swords and harness jangling. One tipped his helm up and gave a curt bow of his head.
“Captain, the fo’c’sle gang is at the ready. Guns charged and bows cranked as ordered.” His companion raised a gloved hand to the peak of his iron barbute. “Same below us, Captain. All at the ready.”
Danamis nodded. “Good. And remind your men that we are trading with friends. No taking aim at them. No shouting or cursing. Silence. Do you understand?”
Both captains-at-arms nodded earnestly. Danamis shifted the belt that held his single-edged falchion. “Very well, then. Break out the cargo on the main deck. I expect our guests to be arriving soon.” The two bowed in unison and withdrew below.
Tetch moved to the ornately carved blackwood rail that overlooked the deck and placed both hands upon it as he watched the sailors and soldiers begin to raise the hatch grating. Soon, large bundles of tarred canvas, tied stoutly with hempen rope, came up from below, passed hand to hand.
“You truly speak their tongue?” remarked Tetch. “I always marvelled at how your father could manage that. Reckon he learned you, eh?”
Danamis joined him at the railing. “He did.”
Tetch’s gaze remained focussed on the men below as they laboured to shift the cargo. The last of the five bundles was brought up and laid out below the fo’c’sle. “Many of the men still don’t like this trade. Grumbling below decks on Firedrake. Your vessel too, from what I hear.”
Danamis felt himself begin to bristle. “They like the gold well enough.”
“Oh, aye, that be true. But it’s trade with heathen, my boy. And we’ve all been to temple, haven’t we? Damned priests hectoring us about the wicked spawn of the sea…” He shook his head slowly. A loud splash sounded on their larboard quarter as the Firedrake dropped anchor a cable length away.
“And I hope your lads know their orders. And their place,” said Danamis.
“I’d trust my lieutenant to escort my own wife,” said Tetch, turning to him. “He knows how to run a ship with or without me.”
“You don’t have a wife,” replied Danamis, his voice flat. Tetch swallowed a chuckle.
“Captain Danamis!” The captain of the fo’c’sle yelled up to them. “Broad on the starboard bow!”
It could have been taken for a broaching whale but Danamis and half of his current crew had seen this before. The sea bubbled and foamed about a hundred yards away, a circle as big as their ship was wide. And then another, this time on their stern quarter. Men went rushing across the deck to catch sight of the arrivals. Danamis felt his heart quicken. As always, this would be delicate business. A third area of the sea boiled, this time dead ahead of the Royal Grace. For a moment, his eyes met those of Gregorvero down on the main deck. Gregorvero gave him a wink and a nod of encouragement.
Danamis moved to the starboard side of the ship and watched as four dolphins broke the surface. And behind them (for they were each in harness of woven sea grass) rose a chariot, fashioned of whalebone jaws and the shell of some vast mollusc, all bone white. It seemed to float just at the surface, though how it managed this Danamis did not know. But it was the chariot’s riders that drew the attention and marvel of all aboard. Two more shell and bone chariots broke the surface, each bearing three or four occupants. A conch horn sounded and was met by another and then a third. The middle chariot slowly turned as its dolphins were given rein, and it made way to the side of Royal Grace, bobbing abeam of the carrack.
Clever, thought Danamis as he slowly made his way down the ladder to the main deck. They are shielded from Firedrake if it all goes tits up. He reached amidships and then turned to face the new arrivals. He raised his arm, palm extended, in greeting. Below him, the tallest of the merraised a hand in reply, webbed fingers spread wide. Without waiting for leave, the creature leapt from the chariot and seized a thick rope that dangled over the side of the ship. Danamis took a few measured steps backwards as the merwarrior pulled himself up over the gunwale and stepped onto the deck of the Royal Grace.
He was blue-grey, the colour of death itself, and he towered over Danamis, nearly seven feet if not an inch. He was naked except for a loincloth made from some strange brown fabric that looked like fine glove leather. His skin was smooth and shiny like the dolphins that bore them, and not scaled like that of a fish; it fair bulged with sinews and muscle, for these creatures were unnaturally strong and powerful. Behind him, four more long-fingered and webbed hands reached up over the railing. His companions clambered aboard, lithely and with no visible effort. Both bore thin black blades that were fashioned from the bills of swordfish. They were hideous to behold. Eyes that were somewhat larger than a man’s, almost like a sheep’s, a flattened nose and a mouth that was wide and nearly lipless, they resembled some monstrous frog. They had small rounded ears and even something upon their heads resembling hair but which was not as men had. Yet they were manlike just the same: they stood upon two legs and bore no tails as in the legends of old. Even so, more than one sailor aboard could tell a story of a fisherman tipped out of his dory and dragged down to the depths for no more cause than the sheer fun of watching a man drown, the merman no doubt smiling as the last bubbles of spent air exploded from the fisherman’s lungs. God had created mankind; Belial and Beleth had chuckled and created the mer. Or so said the priests. A low murmur rippled through those men who had never before seen the mer and they who had been so eager to gawp from the starboard rail now
found themselves backtracking to the other side.
“Stand fast!” said Danamis, without turning to his crew. “They are here to trade. I’ll kill the first man who gives them cause to panic.” The crew instantly became quiet, some faces turning up to their captain for reassurance, others wide-eyed and staring at the new arrivals who dripped seawater onto the decks.
Danamis took a step forward and his lips struggled to form the words his father had taught him. He barely knew more than a few phrases of their tongue; just enough to conduct the trade and very little else.
The words left his mouth sounding like a baby’s babble and God knew if they could even understand him. But the lead warrior nodded and replied with something similar though more musical and accompanied by clicks of its tongue.
Danamis recognised very well one of the mermen who stood before him, the tallest of all of them. He spoke the creature’s name: Atalapah. He followed this with the word for ‘trade’ and gestured to the sacks upon the deck. Atalapah gestured to one of his men-at-arms who moved forward, his long feet slapping the deck planks. With one thrust and twist, he ripped a hole in one of the canvas sacks, knelt, and removed a large leaf the size of a man’s hand, waxy and bright green. This he handed to the chieftain. Atalapah took it, held it out briefly towards Danamis. The pirate smiled his reassurance. The merman slowly folded the leaf upon itself, opened his mouth, revealing a row of short pointed teeth, and thrust the packet into his cheek. He inclined his head as if tasting—or thinking—and then withdrew the leaf which he dropped onto the deck.
Atalapah spoke. “It is good.” A spontaneous sputter of surprise spilled out among the crew for the words were in the high tongue of Valdur. Danamis realised he was gaping like a landed mackerel. He stuttered a reply.
The Guns of Ivrea Page 2
