by GJ Kelly
“Perhaps, in spite, Maraciss will fire the Castletown and leave Pellarn a smouldering ruin, and withdraw his Simanian legion back across the Eramak. If the other Goth-lords prod him to the north and west, he may need to recall his forces to Simatheum anyway. If Loryan and Prester and I, or any one of us, survive to advise the Emperor of our success in destroying the Orb, it may even be an Imperial Legion knocking on Simatheum’s door sooner rather than later.”
Gawain had a sudden thought, and frowned. “Does the Emperor have spies in Callodon?”
“Not that I know of, Raheen. Why do you ask?”
“Men claiming to be of the Pellarn Resistance have made their way across the River Ostern, though our forces are suspicious of their origin. They seem more warrior than slave.”
“Pellarn was annexed by Maraciss almost seventeen years ago now,” Berek said quietly, as a crewman padded past them to test and adjust rigging. “The Goth-lord has no reason to risk open war with eastern lands. If there are Simanian spies in Callodon it would likely be for one of two reasons; the first, to ensure there would be no interference with their attempt on the Orb, and the second, to reassure Maraciss that after your victory in the north, Eastland forces were not preparing to retake Pellarn before the Orb was in his possession.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“You have no spies of your own in Pellarn Province?”
Gawain shrugged. “None from Raheen, and no others I’ve been made aware of.”
“It would be easy enough to plant them. Send them up into the forest to cross the Ostern north of the castle town and its outlying villages, up where I and my men entered the forest. It’s not well-guarded. Most of the Simanian regulars patrol the west bank of the river in the region of Jarn. If you have a map, I’ll gladly show you.”
“Actually, I do,” Gawain smiled, and pulled from his tunic the flat-folded leather map he’d carried since Brock had given it to him so long ago.
“Here,” Berek jabbed a finger, pointing at a bulge in the forest well to the west of where Calhaneth would be, were it marked on the map. “If they continue due west after crossing the Ostern and then approach the castle from the north, they’ll be able to mingle with the locals. Make sure they dress poorly, carry no weapons bigger than a boot knife, and are subservient to any and all who might speak to them.”
“Thank you, Berek.”
“Bah. When we ourselves entered Pellarn we did so from the south, carrying baskets of fruit and vegetables. The market was a good meeting place. We were told to look for arrangements of items in groups of six. Six apples, six oranges, six tomatoes, that kind of thing. Whether that sign has been discovered and since changed, I cannot say. But there you are, that’s the best I can give you.”
“Again, thank you. If nothing else, it might appease Brock of Callodon a little when next I meet him. Are you and the men ready for tomorrow?”
“Yes, thank you. Your man Tyrane has given us clothing, and provisions which should keep us hale until we find allies. The men admire you greatly, Gawain. They will be sorry to leave, though glad to go. I would that I were held as high in their esteem.”
“You are, Berek. It’s only the customs of your land which prevent them from showing it.”
Berek nodded his gratitude for the compliment, and then gazed away to the distant coast now unseen in the darkness. “How are your hands, Raheen, their colour seems to be returning to normal.”
“Yes, thank you for asking, they are more pink than red now. I still cannot feel anything. Even so simple a thing as drawing a map from my pocket requires my eyes to ensure I’ve grasped it and not my shirt.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too. Allazar says the feeling will return in time. Perhaps it will.”
“That immense blade of yours doubtless spared you a worse fate. If it’d been a shortsword you struck the creature with, I don’t doubt you’d have lost both your arms to the beast. Do you think it’s dead? That shadow?”
“I’m never going back to Calhaneth to find out.”
“Nor I.”
They smiled at that, and shared a comfortable silence, listening to the waves lapping against the hull. It was a peaceful sound, and fitting.
Balhaggan doubled the watch that night, and the men of the Orbquest spent a little time in quiet contemplation, sharing each other’s company and a bottle of the captain’s port wine for what they knew would be their last night together. One of the Melusine’s longboats was already prepared for sea on the port side of the ship, a visible reminder in the gloom of a moonless night that dawn would see sails set for a fast run northwest close to the shore, and a sad parting of unlikely allies. Farewells would be hasty in the morning, the Captain had made it clear he wished to waste no time wallowing close to the shore in enemy territory.
Sleep was a long time coming in the cabin, though no-one was awake below decks to see the moon rise three hours past midnight.
oOo
62. Ripples
“I don’t like it, m’lud, I don’t like it at all.”
“Nor I, Captain. What do you make of it, could a storm have wrecked the vessel?”
They were staring at the beached skeleton of what had once been a ship, perhaps half the size of their own, its ribs exposed by great holes in the hull, the beach strewn with the rope-tangled wreckage of mast and spar. Balhaggan had sailed a fast and watchful four miles past the mouth of the Eramak and then swung the Melusine about, drawing her close inshore the better to launch the port longboat intending, once it had returned, to make a fast run back to the southeast.
“Storm wouldn’t have made holes like that. Fire did that, I reckon, when she was already on her side.”
“What was she?”
The captain shrugged. “Fast sloop from the north. Raider maybe, bit small for a slaver. She’s lying with her bow to the north, as though taken while running nor’ west away from the mouth of the river.”
“Reesen?”
“Nai, miThal, no lights.”
“Can the longboat make it to shore and back through those waves?”
“Aye, m’lud, it can. Those breakers are mild.”
“Berek, is this too far from the Eramak for your purpose?”
“No, Raheen,” Berek shook his head, choosing his words carefully in the presence of the ship’s captain. “We can proceed on foot from here.”
“Good. Here then, Captain.”
“Aye m’lud,” Balhaggan saluted and turned, barking terse orders at his crew, men rushing to their stations.
“Honour to you, Berek, and good fortune,” Gawain offered his arm, and the Imperator took it. “Speed your journey.”
“And yours, Raheen. Honour to you, and farewell.”
Arms were clasped, the farewells short, earnest, and made in haste, and not simply because the captain was anxious to be on his way. The expressions on all their faces spoke of hope, and friendship, and the very real grief of parting, and the quicker that parting was made, the more their dignity would be spared.
In no time, it seemed, the longboat was in the water, the men of Goria clumsily boarding, and then the boat’s crew nimbly took their places, cast off the lines and struck out for the shore.
“Big men, my lord.” Tyrane said softly, standing to Gawain’s left and watching the longboat riding the swells towards the beach.
“And honourable, too. They were a surprise, of the good kind. I hope they all see their home again.”
“Alas,” Allazar sighed from his right, “I do not think we shall ever know their fate, nor they ours. Sometimes the ripples of our own lives touch far distant shores, and the lives of others, and we know not the outcome. We can only hope that where the ripples touch, they do so kindly.”
Sails fluttered and snapped in the breezes, the Melusine riding at anchor, and most aboard were watching the steady progress of the longboat. Balhaggan paced on the poop deck, arms folded, his gaze flitting from the beach to the tell-tale pennants atop his masts and b
ack at the longboat again.
“Our captain is nervous,” Tyrane muttered.
“It’s the carcass of the ship on the beach,” Allazar eyed the wreckage again. “I doubt any ship’s captain would be comfortable in sight of such catastrophe.”
“I’m not, either,” Gawain mumbled.
“No. But the boat is nearing the shore now, passing through the waves. We’ll all feel easier once it’s back aboard and we’re bound for Porthmorl.” Allazar suddenly frowned. “We are bound for Porthmorl, Longsword?”
Gawain smiled. “Why, did you think I had it in mind to invade Zanatheum or something?”
“Your decision to come here was something of a surprise. I believe I and Major Tyrane assumed we would return to Porthmorl after disposing of the Orb, and then see our three friends across the Ostern at the Jarn Gap.”
“Why do you think I had Balhaggan sail south of Raheen?”
“Yes, I did wonder at that, my lord, but thought it out of respect to your homeland.”
Gawain smiled again. “I thought you all might. If I’d said it was because the Orb’s burial site was more than halfway to the Eramak you’d have guessed my intent. I decided I’d spare Brock the dilemma of having to decide between his vow and my word.”
Tyrane grinned. “He still won’t like it, y’know.”
“I know. But there’s bugger-all he can do about it now. Look. They’re ashore. Wet boots, though, by the looks. Again.”
“They each have a spare pair, my lord.”
“You really do think of everything, don’t you, Tyrane?”
“Alas, no, my lord, or I’d have seen through your ruse of sailing us south of Raheen.”
The longboat was ploughing its way back through the breakers, bobbing up and down and occasionally disappearing from view. Ashore, the three praetorians dressed in non-descript cheapcloth moved up the beach to the foot of the rise, and turned to face the ship. Hands were raised, and all those watching aboard saw sunshine glinting off the swords they held aloft in salute.
Gawain and the others raised their hands, and waved back, and then the men of Goria turned, and began their long journey home. Though they couldn’t see it from aboard the Melusine, those men of the Empire cast frequent glances over their left shoulders, back at the ship, until the longboat was safely back aboard, anchors weighed, and sails set for the long run southeast.
An hour after setting sail and heading south-southwest they passed the mouth of the Eramak, the ship heeling slightly in the onshore breezes, all sails taut.
“Captain’s in a hurry,” Gawain noted.
“Arr. Me too. I’m glad me mates got back to their homeland an’ all, melord, but now’s the time for us to back to ours, I reckon. The grog stuff these sailor blokes drink is a bit rough fer the likes o’ me.”
“Are you sure you’ve sampled enough of it to make an accurate assessment?”
“Heh, narr, melord. I know what I likes, an’ sad to say, sailor’s grog ain’t it.”
“MiThal…”
“Reesen.”
The elf was pale, and had been since they’d boarded the ship. His had been a voyage made miserable by seasickness. He was frowning, and trying to shield his eyes against the glare of the sun reflecting off the water.
“Wots up, mate?” Ognorm asked, suddenly concerned. “Not going to chuck yer brekkie overboard are you?”
“Nai, mifrith… See dark, maybe.”
“Dwarfspit. Where, Reesen?”
The elf pointed towards the shore, to the right of the east bank of the Eramak.
Eyes strained, but nothing was visible to the naked eye this far offshore.
“Low or high?”
Reesen shrugged. “Short time, miThal. Sorry.”
Gawain frowned. “Tyrane, have Balhaggan adjust his course to take us further out to sea. Tell him we’re worried about a possible enemy sighting inshore.”
“Aye, my lord.”
“What d’you reckon it is, melord? They got things that can go in the water?”
“I haven’t memorised Allazar’s book completely yet, but I’ve read it cover to cover on our voyage and no, there’s nothing in it about sea-creatures. Allazar?”
“No, Longsword. There is no record in the Pangoricon of such creatures.”
The ship’s head slowly swung further south, men rushing to trim sails.
“Captain Balhaggan would have us join him by the wheel, my lord. If we come under attack he wants you there to speed decision-making.”
“Good idea, Tyrane. Reesen might get a better view from there, it’s higher at the back than here.”
“Stern, Longsword.”
“Very, if you’re not careful.”
“Ah.”
Balhaggan looked worried, and mumbled something about onshore breezes and tacking which meant nothing at all to Gawain. They stood at the port side bulwark on the poop deck, all eyes turned towards the receding shoreline.
“Ship-poop.” Reesen whispered, standing at Gawain’s right. “Old ship-poop.”
“Arr, well dunmate,” Gawain whispered in reply, trying not to grin. “Very old ship-poop. See anything now?”
“No… wait… Arr, dark, low, Graken maybe!” And Reesen pointed to the north-eastern horizon.
“Graken!” Gawain called over his shoulder, “From the northeast!”
“Action stations!” Balhaggan cried, and the sailor at the wheel reached out to ring the ship’s bell, hard and fast.
The resting watch from below decks burst up through the hatches, bringing with them all manner of objects and devices Gawain didn’t recognise, and began assembling them together with practiced ease. Catapults and arbalests began springing up around the ship.
Ognorm disappeared through the hatch and down the aft gangway, reappearing moments later with Reesen’s bow and quiver.
“Here y’are, mate.”
“Arr thanks mate,” Reesen replied with a pale smile, seasickness forgotten, and slung the quiver over his shoulder.
“Low, come fast, go past,” Reesen announced, pointing further north now.
“Moving to cross the bow,” Tyrane called.
“Hold yer course, stand to in the bows!” Balhaggan shouted.
They glimpsed it now, flying low, hugging the sea, occasionally disappearing as the ship dipped into the valleys of the swells.
“Loop now,” Reesen announced, pointing towards the bow of the ship and around.
“Starboard side make ready! Target low and fast!”
Arbalests were cranked, steel prods bending and wire-rope strings straining as latches were set. Gawain’s group rushed to the starboard side, and saw the Graken and its rider sweeping up, gaining a little altitude, the rider leaning over the creature’s neck, short rod extended in his right hand. Familiar black balls of smoky fire began to drop, casting up great spouts of water as it sped down the starboard side and wheeled away out to sea.
“It’s trying to turn us in towards the lee shore!” Balhaggan cried.
“I presume that’s bad?” Gawain called over his shoulder.
“It’s what did for that sloop!”
“Ah. Allazar, can you loose upon it?”
“It was too far out, and if it comes closer, I risk striking the sails, masts, and ropes.”
“Rigging.”
“A rude word you’ve learned from Berek?”
“No, a nautical word for ‘ropes’ I’ve learned from Tyrane.”
“There!” Reesen pointed, and nocked an arrow.
The Graken was approaching from the southwest, spearing in towards their bow and the rider already leaning forward to loose his fire across their path.
“Starboard side! Shoot at will!”
Men hunched over sights on the arbalests, and began loosing their bolts. Gawain saw the projectiles streaking into the sky, grappinbows in miniature but still highly lethal. But the arbalesters weren’t used to shooting at targets moving at great speed and on the wing, and the steel missiles missed
by country miles.
One of the catapults at the starboard bow loosed, and a cloud of shining objects shot into the air ahead of the Graken which tried desperately to evade them, flinging itself through a ninety-degree turn to the southeast, left wing high. Holes appeared in that wing, and the Graken screeched in pain.
“Reload! Reload with deck-rake!” Balhaggan shouted. “Ease the helm to port there or stall the sails!”
The Graken wheeled high, losing speed as it climbed, looping around for another run down the starboard side.
“Why doesn’t it pass overhead and shower us with its fire?” Allazar called.
“It wants us aground!” Balhaggan replied, “Don’t ask me why!”
“It wants us alive and the ship intact to be searched!” Gawain announced, and Allazar gasped. “Bring it down! Allazar, loose upon it as it passes if you can!”
“Starboard side! Starboard side!” Balhaggan cried, and sure enough, the Graken began its swooping run, low, perhaps fifty feet above the water and moving fast.
Fireballs began dropping from either side of the beast’s long and slender neck, the sea erupting a hundred yards ahead of the starboard bow. The catapults and arbalests both began shooting, the men now understanding the speed of the creature and the length of the lead needed against it. More clouds of shiny objects burst upwards from the catapults, and bolts from the arbalests. Reesen loosed his arrow, and a moment later the aft catapult loosed its charge of deck-rake into the sky.
Great plumes of seawater burst over the bulwarks and onto the weather deck, and Allazar loosed his mighty tree of lightning skyward. The last they saw of the Graken and its rider when the spray had cleared were the larger of its burning pieces floating on the waves in their wake, plumes of purple smoke whipped away by the breezes.
