He wiped his hand over his thin sweat-soaked beard. “Gregor, we need to come about. Now.”
The master looked at him doubtfully. “Nico, we’ll lose even more speed if we do so now.”
“If he takes us with grapples at the stern we won’t be able to bring the guns to bear. We’ve got to turn around and strike him hard before he can.”
Gregorvero frowned, his face glistening red as an overripe medlar. He then nodded and his cheek twitched in a half-smile. “Aye, then. Ready about! And God save us.” He shouted his orders to the helmsman and as the whipstaff groaned, the Vendetta obeyed, her spars swinging outwards, sails shivering as she heeled to starboard. Danamis watched as Seafox bore down on them, nearly amidships and head-on off their starboard. If he could circle her, he could fire a broadside but Vendetta was stumbling on her turn, her momentum bled nearly dry.
“Master Verano! We will have one chance, sir! Ready your guns! You may give fire at your command.” He then scanned the sterncastle for his commander of the soldiery. “Talis! Ready your archers and gunners!”
Tadeo Verano pushed his great flopping red beret over his right ear and hefted his linstock. He crouched over the first gun and grabbed hold of the wooden quoin and yanked it towards him, raising the piece slightly as he sighted down the barrel and gave it a pat.
“Stand back, lads!”
The saker belched with a jump, its fiery tongue licking out. Danamis saw the foresail of Seafox twitch as the shot pierced it, speeding on to carry away rigging. Verano was onto the next gun, muttering loudly to himself as the soldiers around him stepped back, entranced as if they were watching a street magician. Verano grunted as he gave the quoin a shove. He kissed his fingers and then touched his cannon. The linstock followed. Danamis saw the bow rail of Seafox shatter, men flying over the side. But the ship came on. The third shot raked across the deck diagonally, missing the mainmast but surely killing a score of the closely-packed soldiers and gunners. Danamis knew that by the time they reloaded, Tetch would be on top of them. It would now come down to steel in hand. So be it, he thought. He drew his falchion from its scabbard and ascended to the foredeck.
NEAR UPON A mile distant, the Royal Grace manoeuvred to the rear quarter of the Fortuna, her painted transom in full view. They were in shouting distance of each other and deep inside the range of a well-aimed crossbow. But all was quiet as the two vessels drifted. Bassinio had his orders to refrain from shedding the blood of Palestrians and astonishingly, the crew and captain of Fortuna seemed to feel the same. From his vantage, Bassinio could see the tangle of green sea grass wrapped about Fortuna’s rudder pinions, the great slab of wood pressed hard-over to one side. Between the ships, three mermen bobbed, waving their greetings to the slack-jawed crews.
“What do we do now?” asked his tall grizzled sailing master, shaking his head in wonder.
Bassinio rubbed his face, weighing his options. “I reckon it will take them time to clear that fouling. Half of it is below the waterline.” He looked over to the poop of the Fortuna and recognized her captain, a man he had fought with and hoisted tankards with years gone by. He slowly lifted his plumed hat from his head and bowed to him. The other man, after a moment’s pause, did the same. “Get us under way again,” said Bassinio to the master. “Captain Danamis may need us.”
Danamis was already beginning to think the same thought as the Seafox drew near, her gunwales and fo’c’sle still crowded with spear points and bills. Strykar was grim-faced as they met.
“I thought you could hole her before they could board,” he chided as Danamis sidled up to him.
“We missed,” said Danamis, his voice flat.
“Ah.”
Danamis stared intently at the approaching caravel, his eyes searching out for his enemy. If he could slay that one man, he could end the fight. He knew it.
“Can your buckler men shield me if we board first?”
Strykar turned to him and pushed up the rim of his sallet. “Take the fight over to them?”
“Not all of them. Get me close enough to Tetch. We board at whichever end he is at.”
Strykar nodded. “Better than getting sliced bit by bit where we stand.”
Gregorvero’s voice boomed out below them. “Brace!”
The Vendetta shuddered as the bowsprit of the Seafox hit them amidships and dug aft along the side, stripping the railings and snapping the shroud lines of the main mast. The ship rocked, men stumbled and there was a moment of deathly silence before grapnel hooks and lines came flying across and thudding onto the decks. A whispering swarm of arrows descended upon them. The bow gunner in front of Strykar aimed his swivel mount across and up towards the low sterncastle of Seafox and touched his fuse. The fist-sized shot tore away railing and elicited several screams as it struck. Rondelieri bucklers flew up as another hailstorm of crossbow bolts rained down. Danamis craned his neck, oblivious to the hiss of missiles around him, searching to find the one-eyed devil. And he found him, waving his sword, a battle cry on his lips, urging on his men as they stormed to their starboard, the ships pulled even tighter together in a death embrace.
Danamis gripped Strykar’s shoulder, the latter just peering over the rim of his shield. “There! Amidships!”
Strykar nodded and rallied those around him. They jostled and pushed their way off the fore deck and down to the main deck. Where the orichalcum guns were lashed down was now a mass of straining and yelling men, spears jutting outwards to defend against those thrusting towards them. Two giants from Seafox stepped over the heads of their comrades and rolled onto the deck of Vendetta. One struck down two of Danamis’s crew with his sword before a crossbowman sent a bolt into his face. The other scrambled to his feet, dazed, and this spelt death for him as he was hacked to the planks.
Strykar and about twenty of his men pushed past, running towards the stern, Danamis in their midst. They climbed to the stern deck and Strykar waved his sword, marshalling them all to where there was a short drop down to the bow and fore deck of Seafox. Brognolo, his face a bristling angular mask of short white whiskers came last, puffing.
“Stay back with the others, Sergeant!” Strykar called over to him.
“Captain, they’ll be no others left to come back to unless we take these bastards! I’m jumping with you.”
“Suit yourself, you old fool!” laughed Strykar and he bounded off the deck, landing on a stupefied pirate and slamming him with his buckler, while the other men followed him across. Tetch’s men had crowded together on the main deck as they pushed to gain footing on Danamis’s ship. But they had left the fore deck lightly held and those who did not give way were chopped down by the rondelieri. They locked shield rims and raised their swords high in a hanging guard, moving as one, foot by foot.
Danamis kept a hawk’s eye on Tetch who still had not noticed that his own vessel had now been boarded. The remainder of the rondelieri were now reinforcing the inwardly bulging wall of soldiers on Vendetta, barely holding back the press of Tetch’s crew. Others were trying to board across the gap nearer Vendetta’s foredeck. But a poorly timed jump and a large swell saw two of them tumble down to sink like stones. On-board Seafox, a cry went up as the rondelieri came down the short steps from the foredeck. A group of thirty polearm men peeled off to face them as they advanced, Giacomo Tetch behind them. The mass of men now swirled into melee, steel-barbed shafts thrusting at waist level and at head. A muffled cry of pain or deep grunt and a man would sink down to be trodden on as the lines shifted, a maelstrom of flashing blades high and low.
“Uncle! Come to me!” yelled Danamis, revealing himself. Between a gap in the armoured men, Danamis caught a glimpse of a bald head. Their eyes met and Tetch grinned. His baleful red marble eye made him look monstrous. But Danamis’s heart burned with revenge and it was for him a beacon to guide him to the kill. A rondelieri next to Strykar fell, a bolt through the eye. Another buckler man stepped in to close up the gap.
“Fight me, you whoreson!” Danamis s
pat as he tried to push his way forward, breaking through to Tetch. Already, his side wound was aching as if a blade had pierced him anew.
Strykar barely managed to block a fast spear thrust to his face, just catching it with the rim of his shield. “Danamis! Goddamn you, hold!” But Tetch, wearing his studded brigantine of blue velvet and a rusty gorget, was also working his way through the press to meet Danamis, cackling with joy.
“Over here, boy! This way! Found one of your fish-men fiddling with my ship!” Tetch sidestepped around the mainmast, trying to flank Danamis. “Did you think you could fool me, clever boy? I knew you’d be on the fastest ship you could find. So I got me one too.”
Danamis managed to push between two of the rondelieri and found himself four feet from Tetch. A throng of men around Tetch caught sight of him. And Danamis recognised faces among them, comrades and crew who had fought at his side. A strange lull fell amongst them, first upon those who had seen Danamis emerge, and then spreading to others as awareness built. The furious hammering of poleaxe and sword, spear and shield now subsided into half-hearted blows and parries as the main deck fight slowed.
“Look out there!” said Danamis, hefting his falchion in both hands. “Your fleet is mine again. This is the only vessel you command and that won’t be for long.” And the men around him receded, wordlessly creating a stage for the two captains. Strykar watched, realizing he was helpless to stop the single combat. A crossbowman now, in the uncertainty of the moment, could take Danamis down like an executioner.
Tetch licked his lips as his head darted about, taking in the new situation. Danamis looked past Tetch to see the billowing sails of the Grace closing in. Others had seen her arrival, Tetch included. He hawked and spat on the deck.
“Well,” he said, “Better we end it this way. Save the lads from shedding brother’s blood, right? I will forgive them all after I’ve taken your head.” He glanced over his shoulder and gestured for the curtle-axe that one soldier held. The man tossed it to him and Tetch caught it by the haft.
It was then that Danamis recognised the blade in his other hand. A curving and delicate Southlander sword whose pommel was a golden ball. Escalus’s sword. A weapon Tetch would not be holding if Escalus yet took breath.
“Lord Danamis!” A rondelieri offered his own side sword, hilt forward. Danamis took it in his left hand and bent his knees slightly, each sword held waist high.
The deck had gone near silent all around them, despite the great number of men. Danamis’s voice carried across both vessels and all eyes were upon him, barely a breath taken. “Look around you!” he cried. “You are known for the traitor you are. A black-hearted dog who betrayed those closest to him. The Palestrian dead today are laid at your feet, not mine.”
Tetch smiled again and huffed, tilting his head.
“It will matter little when I kill you, my boy.”
He lunged forward with a downward swipe of his hand-axe to force a block from Danamis, even as he swung the light Southland blade down at Danamis’s left arm. Danamis parried the attack and converted his ward, chopping at Tetch’s neck even as he raised the weapon in his left hand to intercept the pirate’s next blow. Their arms whirled, trading blow for blow, each parrying the other. They circled each other, moving the fight towards the larboard, and, as one, the crews turned to follow them.
The pain in Danamis’s ribs was sharp and he was slowing already, far sooner than he had expected. An instant later and Tetch’s lighter sword had twisted round his side sword. Tetch bent his wrist and the sidesword clattered to the deck. Danamis leapt back and gripped his falchion with both hands in a high guard.
Tetch gave a retching laugh, his breath short. “Your memento from Perusia giving you trouble?”
Danamis cursed him, his arms shaking. “Your aim was poor then and will be again today!”
Tetch laughed raucously. “My aim? Guess again, my boy. You think I’d waste gold for someone else to slay you?”
Danamis blinked as the words sank in. He had assumed too much. Like having only one enemy. Not even dreaming that others wished him ill as well. The anger swelled in him until it burst forth in a cry of fury. He rushed forward and heedlessly aimed a vicious cut—with all his might—down at Tetch’s head. Tetch’s sword struck Danamis but the light blade bounced from his brigantine while Tetch’s axe caught the falchion on its haft. The falchion slid down into Tetch’s gloved hand and he hissed with pain as the axe flew from his grip. Danamis yelled as he dropped his own weapon and seized Tetch by the neck with both hands. He tightened his grip, staring into the unblinking red eye. Tetch whirled, still holding his sword but unable now to wield it. In desperation, he slammed Danamis into the mainmast but Danamis was like an eagle, his claws firmly gripping his prey. Tetch tripped on the deck and they both went down, cursing and snarling. Tetch’s bloody fist struck Danamis in the cheek, and then a second time. Flashing lights filled his vision and his grip on Tetch loosened.
Strykar was as tense as a spanned bow, ready to spring forward. If Danamis fell, the battle would continue despite what Tetch would order. If he intervened now, it might erupt immediately. He continued to watch, his mouth agape. Either way, he swore he would kill Giacomo Tetch before he went down himself.
Tetch’s right arm flew up, bringing the pommel of his sword into Danamis’s head. Tetch rolled and threw him off but Danamis, eyes burning with madness, grabbed the hilt and the blade with both his hands and twisted it round. Tetch fell back on the deck again and Danamis was on him, an elbow into his chest. He flexed his left wrist and the sword sprang from Tetch’s hand. In one move, the pommel pointing skyward and Danamis’s right hand holding the blade about seven inches from the tip, he leaned forward with all his weight and brought Escalus’s sword down into Tetch’s good eye. The pirate screamed in agony, his hands still clawing and pushing at Danamis’s arms, straining to push away the narrow blade tip. Danamis thought of Escalus and all the others that his own blindness had caused to die. All dead because he had played the fool. And with a final cry he sent six inches of Southlander steel into Giacomo Tetch’s brain.
Thirty-Nine
“WHY ISN’T HE buried yet?” Acquel stood in the cloister gardens of the Ara, again clothed in his robes of grey. The air had grown warm and humid, as if the tail end of summer was fighting against the normal passage of the seasons.
“Why, it would be unseemly for the High Priest to be buried any sooner,” Kodoris gently chided, his hands concealed in his sleeves as the two stood together in the sunlight of the dying afternoon.
“You need to be invested now,” replied Acquel. “You must take the purple and I my final vows in the black.”
Kodoris lowered his voice deferentially. “But four of the Nine Principals have left the city. You know this.”
“Then the rump can elect new ones. Our work must not falter. You are yet Magister. Put the ceremony in place.” It was not a suggestion and there was more than impatience in his tone. Kodoris bowed his head. Not far from where they stood, Timandra lay in her lavender-strewn grave. Acquel wanted her there in the gardens, near to him, not in the burial ground outside the town walls among the grey stones. Hers was not the only innocent death that day of revelation beneath the Temple Majoris; one of wonder and of evil mixed. The boy in him had died as well. And in his heart, he had accepted what had been put before him, his future path.
The High Priest-elect shifted nervously, his eyes falling to the amulet that rested outside Acquel’s robes. “The undercroft of the Temple is yet unclean, I fear, even though we have burned the black roots into char. We may not have stopped its growth. Deeper down.”
“It signifies not. I have removed all of the sacred texts from the chamber. Even now they are being transcribed. The plates for the Temple presses will be readied soon. We must waste no time. The Faith depends upon it.”
Kodoris tried to accommodate his new ally. “Agreed, Brother Acquelonius. But twenty blackrobes have already abandoned the monastery. They will
find common cause with others who do not accept the revealed truth. How many more will we lose if we… push things too quickly? You have set us upon a difficult road—strewn with obstacles.”
“Twenty have left but many more have embraced the newfound texts with joy.” Acquel’s face was haggard and though he spoke of joy there was little of it in his voice. “I have promised to deliver the truth of the Word. Some will not like it. But the Truth is the Truth and shall remain so.”
Kodoris seemed to find a little of his old authority once again. “In the tomb… did Elded’s amulet find you or did you find it? I am asking if you stole it from the Saint’s body.”
Acquel looked again at Kodoris, emotionless, his eyes locked onto those of the Magister. There was a moment of silence as Kodoris returned the iron stare. Then Acquel answered, his voice steady, almost matter-of-fact. “I stole it. Yes. And it has paid me hundredfold for my rashness. But I accept my fate.”
“Your destiny. The Saint would have found another if you were not meant to bear its message. You told me how the amulet can choose who it will remain with. It could have chosen someone after you. But it has not.” Kodoris placed his hand on Acquel’s arm and the greyrobe tensed at the touch. “Know that I follow not only out of penance, but out of choice. My own choice. I have read the Black Texts. I embrace them. And you are anointed of the Saints. But, I fear that prayers and incense will not be enough to combat what has been unleashed on Valdur.”
“Where has she gone?”
Kodoris shook his head. “She has fled Livorna. But we know not where. She is a powerful enchantress and I will carry to my grave the sin of having empowered her. But she must be pursued or the old evil will take root elsewhere.”
The Guns of Ivrea Page 39
