He tightened his jaw at his aching knee, strained by his position, and squinted into the darkness, willing his vision to clear as the moons rose. The nearing schooner loomed, though it moved glacially slow. Joran was holding their own speed for a final burst. The acrid scent of his own terror-laced sweat rose as he drew string to cheek. His shoulder ached deep, but he gritted his teeth and ignored it.
Past the voices of the crew, the thrup of the sails overhead, the ever-shifting waves, the near silent hiss of arrows, he heard the far off creak of a winch. Damn. Ballistae on the other ship, and casts. A flaming ball whizzed through the air. Overshot—it sizzled into the sea.
He squinted. Saw the flare as they lit another ball. A man-shaped shadow backed away from it, highlighted by his bunt. Draken drew and sighted, but with the movement of both ships and the distance, it was an impossible shot. He let it fly and it joined the flock of other arrows whistling by. Another volley, and so on, each bow nocked with two arrows for maximum coverage. Winches cranked and snapped as they released. Arrows peppered the sea and the hull and aft deck. Draken climbed up to the aft deck and glanced back at Brimlud. He was mostly protected on the lower quarterdeck, but Draken wished he had more cover. He wished his ruddy Brînian crew weren’t so foolhardy and conceited that they wouldn’t wear armor.
Gods forsake them, the Ashen were closing on them. Draken fought his rising blood, trying to keep calm as he watched for more shadows around the angled shapes of their artillery. He could pick out more moving people and artilery on the moon-side. The glow in their firetroughs resolved into flames as they drew on. He let his focus change. Damn. He needed to find bloodstone uniforms. When it was time, he could fair kill them by single shots.
A lower topsail on the Bane ripped and caught flame, flaring. Acrid smoke choked Draken’s lungs. Several sailors coughed. Draken grabbed up a wet, filthy rag and tied it over his face. It smelled of salt and dirt and fish, but cut the impact of the smoke on his lungs. Someone shouted, another sailor answered. Hoka, perhaps. From the fighting top he could climb down to the bucket of water being winched up the mast. Hurling balls splashed all around both ships.
In the meantime Draken let more arrows fly, straining despite muscle memory. Behind, someone screamed and thudded hard against the deck. He grimly kept picking out bodies and shooting. He didn’t know if he was hitting anything. Both the enemy and the Bane shifted over the waves, ruining most of his shots. He hit enough, alongside Osias, Tolon, Hoka, and the others, to keep the Monoeans ducking for cover.
A white light spread over the moonside of the enemy ship, revealing people and artillery in sharp relief against the glow of firetroughs. A little closer and they’d be easier to pick off.
More flaming arrows tore into the Bane’s sails and clattered to the deck as the Monoean bowmen tried to shoot his people down and catch the ship. Setia, the galley lad, and another sailor raced about with water, drowning sparks. Two others worked lines with harsh grunts. Between the thup-thup-thup of Draken’s bow and the whistling, metallic clatter as chainshot caught on sails, railings, and wood: another scream, a moment of deadly silence, a clattering thud that seemed to bubble up from belowdecks, and a splash. Damn.
The noise aboardship raised to a din; more arrows arced into the Bane, coming in sheets like hard, killing rain. An arrow sliced Draken’s arm and the deck under his feet trembled as it healed. With a grunt he refocused his mind and his aim. Caught a glimpse of moonlight on crimson on the opposite deck. The world slowed, crawled. The Bane and the enemy ship both crested a wave at the same time. Draken drew to his cheek, breathed in a draught of sweat-stink air, and loosed. The officer fell.
He blinked, realized he could see the other ship far too well. Chainshot and balls and shafts hurtled into the Bane. He could feel and smell the flaming heat off their sails. The enemy was closing in now, too close. They would ram the Bane. No. Too soon. He bellowed, “Brimlud! About!”
The helmsman was already on it. The Bane listed steeply enough Draken had to grab the harpax cord to not slide across the deck. His eyes never left the enemy ship. Its name was emblazoned on the side in great script: Kingsblood.
“Man harpaxes!” Just in case. Arrows flew from Osias’s bow, and his long hair streamed back like a banner. Draken rose up and lifted his bow, uncaring and uncovered, and nocked. A head peaked up over a ballista on the other ship; Draken’s arrow thudded through it with a spray of black. Someone on the other ship screamed. They were close enough to shout to one another. Arrows bristled from the Kingsblood’s hull and railing and decks. His men had fought well. He gripped the ballista line, waiting for the scrape of hull against hull, for the Bane’s hull to smash irreparably against the other ship. The moment he felt it, he’d give the order to shoot the great bolts into the Kingsblood.
But Brimlud cranked the Bane round so hard she shuddered and creaked in protest. Draken cursed, snatched up arrows from the quiver, and sent another Monoean archer screaming to his death. Two more took his place as the dead bowman slammed back into a fire trough. Sparks and kindling burst upward, drawing Draken’s eye and blinding him to the battle.
Good shot, but a sword is a real weapon.
Bruche again? Draken shook his head. The world felt as if it wavered.
Galbrait, terrorized and shaky, cut through Draken’s momentary fugue. “The King is on board. Stop firing!”
Draken turned his head. His curse didn’t reach his lips. There wasn’t time.
Something choked Galbrait’s words like an axe hewing kindling. Aarinnaie had tackled him, dragging him down to the decking. He rolled and twisted away from her, leapt to his feet. They were nearly gone by the Kingsblood. The Bane was sound. Draken heard the winding creak of a great harpax, the thud of a great bolt. The Bane shuddered. Draken shouted to his men to stop; their hull wasn’t breached, this would only ensure boarding. The fool Prince kept shouting at the other ship: “Stop! The King is—!” But an arrow skipped off a boom and changed course for Galbrait’s head, donning him with a crimson mask of blood and drowning the last of his words.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Draken’s lungs forgot to suck in air, but his hands didn’t forget to nock an arrow. The muscle memory felt like an ancient command. Both ships jerked and twisted on the water, both listing and straining against the bolts that bound them. An archer on the Kingsblood fighting top fell screaming to the Bane’s deck, hit the rail, and was lost to the sea. Two bowmen at the enemy rail died moments later, stuck with arrows. The ships were parting, sea and wind dragging them. A thud jarred through Draken’s knees. Another. Wood creaked and groaned as it split. Harpax bolts from the damned Kingsblood. He scrambled to the side and clung to the wire holding the ballista in place, staying low, cursing. Sailors on both ships were too busy hanging on to the spinning ships to keep firing.
The ships were six strides apart, rotations gradually slowing, the Kingsblood reeling them in. He got his balance but hands caught his arm as he was drawing back again. Small but strong. He turned his head, the bow still taut.
Aarinnaie winced. “They’re going to board us.”
“Galbrait?” He struggled to look past her. The only thing left of the Prince was a bloody smear on the deck.
“Alive. Sliced his head. A lot of blood.”
Her gaze slid around him and she released a slow breath. He realized he could hear her plainly. The hurling balls had stopped; the arrows ceased. He followed her gaze. Arrows encircled him like a small forest. He blinked up at Osias. “Glamour isn’t just camouflage, is it?”
An unusual deadpan tone from Osias: “No use keeping secrets around you.”
Ropes and wood creaked and heavy chains clunked. The Bane twitched under Draken’s boots.
“They’re laying bridges,” Aarinnaie said.
Draken rose. The two ships were bound precariously by two harpax bolts, held at an odd angle. Dozens of men marked with ash were gathering on the near side of the Kingsblood, preparing to board them. Their captain
had ordered them to stop firing, obviously. It was all very orderly and gave Draken a glimmer of something to work with.
One of his sailors was in the rigging cutting through the Bane’s burning main topsail while another took cover behind the main mast and cranked up a bucket of water. Tyrolean stood panting and bleeding on the deck; an arrow had nicked his arm. Two sailors sprawled on the deck, surrounded by splatters of blood. One of them was Hoka. Down in the hold, someone’s screams turned to moans and choked to a stop.
“Halmar, wrap Galbrait in chains and take him to the far side of the ship. Be quick about it. On my order, drop him over.”
Halmar didn’t stop to nod, just strode to pick up Galbrait. The Prince was limp in his brawny arms, out cold from the knock in the head. He carried him off to the far side of the ship and was hopefully hidden from the Kingsblood by the big mast. A clink of chain told Draken his orders were being obeyed.
A man in crimson uniform made bulky by armor, his helm under his arm, strode to the rail of the Kingsblood. Draken blinked at him. He was Ashen all right, marked across the forehead and twined moons embroidered into the fabric over his chest. And he knew the man. Scoured his memory for the name. Chaessar.
“Who is your Captain?” Chaessar asked.
Joran started forward, but Draken stepped over the arrows and leapt down the steps to the quarterdeck and down to the main. “I am in command of this ship.”
Several bows creaked on the Kingsblood as archers took aim.
“Hold.” Chaessar’s gaze raked over Draken. “And you are?”
“Brînian merchants.” A test to see if Chaessar really didn’t know.
“You trespass.”
“Fools all, one cannot trespass on open sea!” Aarinnaie’s body was tight, low, her fingers gripping knives. Chaessar was within throwing range for her, but a dozen arrows would take her out before he hit the deck. Draken wrapped his free hand around her wrist.
“It is claimed for Moonminster Temple of Monoea,” Chaesser said. “The gods own all, and shall recover what is stolen from them.”
Draken frowned at that bit of audacious nonsense, but didn’t argue. “I would seek terms, my lord. We mean you no harm and fought only in self-defense.”
“Why would I treat with you? We have bested you soundly. You are my prisoner, mine to keep or dump into the sea. Lower aim, set fresh bolts. Cut them loose and sink that ship.”
Bows strained on the Bane; Draken held up a hand to stop them firing. He sighed, bent, laid down his bow. His back and shoulders ached, tightening after so much exertion. He drew Seaborn. It glowed faintly, just enough to show it was more than just the moons’ reflection. Chaessar stared hard at it and everyone on both ships stilled.
“That very well may be,” Draken said, “but I am chosen by the gods. To touch me and mine means you are challenging the Seven Eyes. They are watching now, Chaessar. And truth, they do not fair tolerate disobedience.” He’d learned that the hard way.
Chaessar stared unblinking at him. Or the sword. Draken couldn’t tell which. Something crossed his face: a slight, cruel smile close on the heels of his disbelief. “You are Prince at Brîn.”
“I am many things, Chaessar. What I am not is your prisoner.”
“Yet. Bring him and Prince Galbrait.”
“I don’t know what use Galbrait will be,” Draken said. “He is soon to die, thanks to your bows.”
“His body will suffice.”
This set him back a step. Maybe he should have anticipated it. Draken pretended to consider. “I’ll willingly bring him over to your ship if you agree to terms.”
Chaessar shook his head. “Or I simply take him.”
“Halmar, toss Galbrait overboard.”
“No!” Chaessar scowled, his lip upturned.
Draken very carefully did not smile. “Hold, Halmar.”
“I assume these terms involve my letting your ship go.”
Draken nodded. “Aye. In exchange for me and the Prince.”
“They will only chase us and engage again.”
“They’re under strict orders to change course from yours in the event of terms,” Draken lied.
Chaessar’s lips pulled down into a caricature of a frown. Here, then, was the crux of it. Invoking the gods had worked but Draken had no illusions on how long that would last. A few well-placed arrows would solve Chaessar’s problem with a minimum of fuss. The question Draken had was: why hadn’t he exercised that option? Maybe he really did think Draken was some rightful King. He wasn’t being terribly kind about it though; maybe he didn’t think Draken should be King but couldn’t disagree with his superiors.
Chaessar nodded. “Bring the Prince. You have your terms.” Draken blinked in surprise as the Ashen captain turned to give orders, not waiting for a reply.
“That’s odd,” Aarinnaie muttered.
“He’s lying,” Tyrolean said.
“No. He wants me alive. That priest Rinwar wants me alive,” Draken said grimly. But not every Ashen was privy to that knowledge, that was for certain. He sensed every single one of the Monoean arrows trained on his back. “Halmar. Bring Galbrait. I’ll carry him over.”
Halmar gave a crisp nod. “Aye, Khel Szi.”
“You said you’d protect him,” Tyrolean said.
“I said I’d protect you all. Galbrait and I are our only bargaining stones.”
Tyrolean nodded, but his eyes narrowed, flicked to Draken’s sword. “You have a plan.”
“Keep Aarinnaie safe for me.”
Tyrolean shook his head. “There’s no chance of your winning against him. Just by the look of the Captain’s blade …” He gave Draken a level look and said without conceit, “Let me stand in your stead.”
“Listen to him, Draken. You cannot do this,” Aarinnaie said.
Draken sighed and looked at Osias.
The Mance narrowed his eyes, studied Draken, and nodded. “This he must do alone.” The soft finality in his tone silenced them all.
Blood caked the side of Galbrait’s head. Draken knelt by him as Halmar undid the chains and probed it. Still seeping blood. It needed sewing badly. Galbrait was pale as death and unconscious. Setia stood near him, a bloody rag in her hands. She’d only managed to push the blood around a bit.
He knew his sister believed their whole world had come down to this, to these men on this ship. But he couldn’t forsake Brîn. He couldn’t forsake Elena. He had to fight for her the only way he knew how. Once he had killed her. Her dying had saved them all. Now it was his turn.
“Be well, Szirin … my assassin.” He leaned down to kiss her cheek and murmur in her ear, “Remember what I told you about the Priest.”
Aarinnaie blinked and swallowed. Nodded.
“Good.” He stroked a stray curl from her cheek and turned away, his throat tight.
Once when Draken had been a young bowman, they’d been boarded by pirates. He had thought they were dead for certain. But his Captain had concealed a blade and waited for the best opportunity to use it, killing the pirate captain. It had been a fair close thing.
This would be closer.
A few scrapes, grunts, and thuds and the bridge was set, latching onto the Bane’s railing. Joran and his mate went to secure it onto the Bane at Draken’s nod. Draken carried the limp Prince across, knowing the moment their feet hit the deck of the Kingsblood their lives were forfeit. He could only hope to save his sister, his friends, and his crew.
Chaessar watched him come aboard. Draken felt abruptly naked in his bare chest and feet with no paint. He wished he at least had the gruesome visage Aarinnaie had painted for him to meet Aissyth.
“Your Prince, Captain,” he said. He knelt to lay Galbrait on the deck. The blood was slowing. He lolled against the deck, limp and unconscious.
“My King.” Chaessar’s eyes narrowed. His gaze flicked from Elena’s pendant up to Draken’s face. “Gods, I didn’t believe it when I heard. You’re the King’s bastard cousin.”
“I don�
�t claim the King, nor does he claim me. I am Khel Szi of Brîn.” He drew Seaborn and bolted forward to slash at Chaessar. He managed to get a strike, but his feet were wrong, misplaced, and he realized his mistake instantly. Chaessar whipped his sword from its sheath and blocked his next attempt. The Ashen cheered.
“Enough! Desist!” On an upswing, Chaessar’s blade came perilously close to Draken’s arm, feeling as if it sheared off the hairs. “Don’t make me harm you.”
“I’m going to make you kill me.” Gods, he didn’t even have a bracer on. Small wounds would heal. He had borne the pain. “Or die trying.” Before he lost his chance, his footing, and his nerve, he again drove his sword at Chaessar.
Chaessar blocked with an odd twist to his arm and, shoving Draken’s sword out of the way with his bracer, he struck. Blood spurted hot over Draken’s chest, thick and fast. He grunted at the sharp, deep pain and felt the pinpricks surround the wound. The blood would hide the healing. He snarled and brought his sword around, clumsily because the prickly sensation of the wound closing was distracting.
A slight shudder passed through the ship and the wood groaned softly, as if the gods had given it a light shake. Draken leapt forward again, trying for a lowline strike. Chaessar blocked again. The swords clanged. Seaborn’s moon-wrought notched Chaessar’s steel. He used Chaessar’s momentary surprise to slip under his guard. Seaborn skipped across Chaessar’s belly, slicing through fabric and flesh. Chaessar hissed; it sounded more annoyance than pain. The crimson uniform hid the blood—Draken doubted there was much. But it did the trick. Chaessar forgot he wanted Draken alive. It was all Draken could do to block his first strike; the second sliced deep across his bare chest, cutting sinew and muscle. The cut in Draken’s chest seared with pain as blood hit the sea air. Agony made Draken stagger back. Chaessar followed and Draken shoved past the pain to score a hit on Chaessar’s arm. Not enough to stop the captain, but enough to make Draken seem worthy. Enough to make Chaessar work for it.
Emissary Page 32
