Ulrich rose. ‘Now you are reading my memories. That is one intrusion too many…’ His voice trailed off as his mind whirled back to a faction fight in a narrow Markibec street… to the elation of suddenly really understanding how to use a sword… the bliss of flowing through the spaces in the whirl of blades… then the shock in the faces of both sides as they drew apart, dragging their dead with them… Finally, Hans’s maimed corpse and the knowledge that his curse had driven him to cut down his childhood friend.
Ulrich steadied himself against a column. ‘That was uncalled for.’
Lady Brightfeather shook her head. ‘Choices,’ she repeated, now standing eye to eye with him.
‘My curse gave me none,’ said Ulrich. ‘But I have the choice to end the curse for everybody. As a pilgrim I have a right to know the position of the Isle of the Crystal Pool.’
Lady Brightfeather motioned to a servant who handed Ulrich a sheet of parchment bearing sailing directions. ‘Your request was anticipated.’
Ulrich glanced at the chart, laughed and handed it back. ‘And your response was disingenuous. The elusive Isle will have gone before I can reach it.’
Lady Brightfeather made an open-handed gesture. ‘Alas, the Clockwork Chart informs but does not predict.’
‘So let me examine it!’ said Ulrich. ‘I am a scholar of all things mathematical. If there are cogs and gears, then predictive formulae can be derived. Think of the…’
She held up her hand to cut off his words. ‘By custom, only the pure may enter the citadel. The priestesses draw up charts and convey them to the supplicants.’
‘That may change,’ said Ulrich, ‘despite your custom. My countryman in the other pinnace conspires with your buccaneers.’
‘They are not my buccaneers,’ she said. ‘They are renegades who exploit this island’s path through the Archipelago.’
‘Whether they are yours or not, they threaten your safety,’ said Ulrich.
‘If they attack the temple, then the Holy Albatross will unleash her wrath on them.’
‘Meaning you will unleash your wrath on them.’
The high priestess tilted her head but said nothing.
‘That explains why they respected the Pilgrim Banner when we sailed in…’ mused Ulrich. Sweat trickled into his eyes. He blinked and mopped his brow. ‘But if Santino is involved, he will have some scheme to win. Do not underestimate him.’
‘Do not underestimate me,’ said Lady Brightfeather.
Some preternatural quality in her voice made the hair stand up on the back of Ulrich’s neck. No, he should not underestimate her. But nor should he and his crew become swept up in the impending storm.
‘I wish you well,’ said Ulrich. He pulled off the pilgrim headdress and placed it carefully on the flagstones. He took the opportunity to pick up the half-empty coffee cup and gulp it down. Then he shed the pilgrim robe and twisted off the armlets. ‘Give these to somebody who needs them.’ He straightened. ‘I will find the Crystal Pool without the Clockwork Chart.’
Ulrich’s headache came on as he descended the steps.
* * *
The gate guards looked at him oddly, but let him back through into the Pilgrim’s Harbour.
Santino blocked his path. The big Heritor sneered down at him. ‘I see your knowledge of Drichean custom did not help you.’
Ulrich’s fingers tensed, longing for his sword. ‘You were right,’ he said, ‘there is nothing for me here.’
Santino smirked, but he also bowed and stepped aside.
Ulrich’s crew awaited him on the Redeemer. ‘Cast off,’ he ordered. ‘Get us away from here.’
They shoved off and used the long-handled sweeps to nudge the boat out of the harbour, all the while putting up with jeers and catcalls from Santino’s crew.
In the bay, the wind was against them, but the light pinnace easily zigzagged across the wide blue waters. They made good headway towards the ocean.
‘Where to?’ asked Ayesha.
‘I need to find some other way to locate the Isle of the Crystal Pool,’ said Ulrich.
‘Back to Markibec, then?’ she asked. ‘We could break the voyage at…’
Ulrich shook his head. ‘I cannot face going home.’
‘Your friend Hans came to a faction fight with a sword in his hand,’ said Ayesha. ‘It wasn’t your fault you killed him.’
‘Wasn’t it?’ He raised his spyglass and trained it on the harbour. Santino’s men loitered on their pinnace. There was an unfamiliar figure in their midst – a mountain of a man in a shaggy coat with red and white toadstools growing out of its shoulders. Santino had also been hiding his own mystic, though this one was an Earth Warden.
‘You were in the grip of your Heritor powers,’ said Ayesha.
‘I didn’t have to be. I had a choice,’ said Ulrich.
‘You were young!’
‘Young and a bad person, apparently,’ said Ulrich.
Now Santino gave an order. His crew cast off and manned the sweeps. The pinnace pulled out from the dockside and headed for the harbour mouth.
Meanwhile, the Earth Warden made more subtle arm gestures.
‘Nobody prepared you,’ said Ayesha.
‘Isn’t that how life works?’ said Ulrich. ‘Damn!’
A house-sized chunk of rock detached from the cliff face. It fell oh-so-very-slowly, taking with it a cloud of pebbles. It crunched into the gatehouse, utterly erasing it, then splashed into the harbour – all eerily soundless thanks to the distance.
Some of the crew pointed and shouted.
The rumble-crash of falling stone finally reached them over the water.
Ayesha looked over her shoulder and cursed. ‘We’re well out of it.’
‘Yes,’ said Ulrich.
Santino’s pinnace was already heading back for the quayside. The men on the deck threw off their cloaks. Breastplates and ringmail sleeves flashed in the sun. As the vessel touched, they leapt off and headed for the now-unguarded steps, the Earth Warden striding along in their midst.
Ulrich recalled how the landward section of the citadel walls sat above a deep rock-cut moat. It should have vouchsafed them extra protection. Now, at the hands of the Earth Warden, that moat would become a liability.
He panned the telescope over the harbour beach. The little fishing boats had upped anchors and were making for shore as if a storm were coming.
The five beached buccaneer ships, however, were deserted. Ulrich did not need his curse to tell him exactly where their crew had gone.
‘Turn about,’ he said. ‘If Santino succeeds in his scheme, then he will make himself King of Markibec. This is my fault. I have to stop him.’
Ayesha bellowed orders.
They came about. The sail billowed. The wind behind them, they skipped back the way they had come.
Ulrich called for his armour. First came the brigandine – a leather waistcoat of which a lining of metal plates held in place by brass studs. As a crewman buckled it on, Ulrich said, ‘You can put me off at the harbour.’
‘No,’ said Ayesha. ‘We’ll come with you.’
Ulrich circled his shoulders, checking he could move in the armour. ‘This is not your fight,’ he said.
Next came the bascinet, an open-faced helm that gave him good visibility. He flipped down the hinged nose piece.
‘But we are all citizens of Markibec,’ said Ayesha. She raised her voice. ‘What say you, friends? Shall we flee while Santino loots enough wealth to buy the crown of Markibec?’
The crew chorused, ‘No!’ and ‘Fight!’
The hatch flipped open and Stochastus clambered out.
‘What about you Storm Warden?’ asked Ulrich.
Stochastus grinned. ‘I will follow the Eye of the Storm.’
* * *
The Redeemer swept unchallenged into the Pilgrim Harbour.
The dockside was empty except for some bronze-armoured corpses scattered over the rubble of the guard tower. A bell clanged faintly. Overhe
ad, a whorl of dark clouds coiled like a great spring.
Ulrich jumped ashore. ‘Come on, my friends, we have some climbing to do.’
The brigandine was heavy, but less cumbersome than the pilgrim robes had been. The air was so thick it was like wading through water. Ulrich didn’t care. He took the steps two at a time while his people struggled to keep up.
From above, stone crashed. Men roared. Weapons clashed.
So much for the priestess’s strong-walled citadel.
Ulrich realised he was taking the steps in long bounds – a moment of distraction and his curse had snared him. He slacked off a little, but still reached the top ahead of his people.
He halted in the cover of the little pavilion where he had taken coffee with Lady Brightfeather only that morning.
A chunk of the landward section of the citadel walls had collapsed into the moat, forming a causeway. Santino and his heavily armoured crew formed the tip of a wedge of buccaneers who strove to force their way inside. More milled around outside, trading arrows with the defenders or just yelling encouragement.
Ulrich’s crew arrived; panting, red-faced, clutching spears with sweaty hands.
The dark clouds now spread across the sky, bringing an early twilight.
Ayesha squinted into the gathering gloom. ‘What now?’
Ulrich turned to the Storm Warden, who seemed none the worse for his climb. ‘Can you get us over the wall to join the defenders?’
‘I’ve no idea!’ said Stochastus. ‘I could certainly hurl you over, but the citadel has magical defences.’
‘They didn’t stop the wall from coming down,’ said Ayesha.
‘No, they didn’t, did they?’
‘Hey, northmen!’ The grey-bearded buccaneer was shouting at them in the trade language. ‘Come on! No hiding in the shadows. You all fight or no deal. Even the crazy little fat guy.’
‘Who can he mean?’ asked Stochastus.
Ulrich raised his voice, ‘Just coming!’ He turned to his crew. ‘Right. It seems we all look the same to them… Let’s get close and let them have it. That should turn the tide.’
He led his people through the milling crowd of buccaneers – most of them more lightly armoured than the storming party – and made for the breach. ‘Hold steady, my friends,’ he said. ‘Nearly there…’
Another moment and their surprise attack would let the defenders sally out and rout the buccaneers. Hopefully, they would realise his crew was fighting on Lady Brightfeather’s side.
Forked lightning connected sky and ground. Two buccaneers simply exploded. Several more fell prone. One ran in circles with his hair on fire.
Ulrich’s ears rang but he grinned. Lady Brightfeather was certainly bringing down the wrath of her god as she had promised.
The surviving throngs of buccaneers yelled and went for the only cover they could find, pushing in towards the breach. The extra weight of numbers drove the head of the wedge inside. The defenders broke. The buccaneers streamed across the moat.
‘What now?’ asked Ayesha.
But Ulrich was already striding towards the breach.
They picked their way over the rubble and into the precinct of the citadel where even Sir John Mandeville had not managed to penetrate.
Inside, a wild melee surged around a jumble of buildings. There was more yelling than killing. Though the buccaneers had steel weapons, the temple guards plied their bronze-tipped spears with gusto, keeping the other fighters at bay.
Ulrich sensed Santino moving deeper into the warren. Avoiding the knots of combat, he led his people after his adversary.
The way opened into a small plaza in front of an octagonal temple.
Red plumes waved over a mass of buccaneers – the temple guards were holding the entrance. Lady Brightfeather and her attendants stood on a balcony overlooking the fighting. She raised her arms. Lightning cracked down into the plaza.
It haloed the mighty figure of the Earth Warden who stood further back, in the middle of a loose circle of Santino’s crew. The thunderclap was like a slap in the ears.
Ulrich flinched. His crew back stepped, reeled.
Unperturbed, undamaged, Santino’s Earth Warden struck the paving slabs with his staff. Shards of stone flew off in the direction of the high priestess.
She held out her hands, pushing the air.
The stones seemed to hit an invisible wall. They stopped dead, then dropped into the melee on the temple threshold.
Lady Brightfeather staggered. Her attendants set her back on her feet. Again, she raised her arms. Lightning webbed the clouds, but no bolts struck the plaza. She sagged against her companions.
Santino’s Earth Warden slammed his staff into the ground. His deep-throated chant reverberated below the sound of the melee. The earth rumbled.
Stochastus the Storm Warden broke into song; something between a shanty and an ululating prayer. He went up on his toes and, despite his rotund figure, performed a nimble-footed dance. Little dust devils whirled across the darkened plaza and converged on the Earth Warden.
The big man flailed his arms as if mobbed by a swarm of hornets.
Stochastus laughed as he pranced and pirouetted. ‘That should give the lady some breathing space.’
Santino’s head whipped around. He pointed his sword at Ulrich’s crew. His men formed up around him and began to advance on them.
Ulrich drew Guiltbringer and strode to meet his adversary.
* * *
Santino, extending his sword like a lance, roared and charged.
‘Split and flank,’ ordered Ulrich. ‘I’ll deal with the buffalo.’
As his crew ran off to the left and right, Ulrich dropped into a fighting stance – bent legs, left foot forward – and cocked Guiltbringer over his rear shoulder. His opponent obviously planned to use bulk and better armour to intimidate then overwhelm him.
Still roaring, Santino bounded closer, long legs devouring the distance between them, driving the lethal point of his sword towards Ulrich’s face.
The timing had to be just right.
The blood rushed in Ulrich’s ears. His breathing quickened. He tried to relax, tried to focus, but not on the image of the sword driving through his cheek, smashing his teeth…
Santino was nearly on him now, whites of his eyes wide, lips distended in a berserker grin.
Any moment…
Any moment…
NOW!
Ulrich’s curse blazed through his limbs, setting his veins on fire.
He twitched his sword across and down, pivoting to the side as he cut.
Guiltbringer whistled down on top of Santino’s sword and forearms. The crossguard deflected the wild thrust. The blade slammed uselessly into his enemy’s mail. The point, however, split the rings and skewered the meat of the bicep.
That wasn’t enough to stop the big Heritor.
Santino kept coming. He took his left hand off his sword, and pivoting forward, reached for Ulrich’s neck. Meanwhile, he raised his right hand into a hanging parry, shoving Guiltbringer aside.
Ulrich did not resist the push on his sword. His blade swung behind him, bringing forward the pommel: the solid iron counterbalance.
He slammed it into Santino’s face.
Crimson splashed.
The big man staggered back. Blood streamed from his wrecked nose.
Ulrich whipped his sword back around. The blade clanged off Santino’s helmet.
Santino roared and threw a wild blow at Ulrich’s head.
Ulrich sprang out of the way. He cut to the other side, slightly lower.
This time Guiltbringer struck home below his helmet. The keen-edged blade sheared flesh and bone. Head and helmet clanged to the flagstones.
The corpse stumbled past, fountaining blood.
Now Ulrich could take in the situation.
Stochastus and Santino’s Earth Warden wrestled on the ground, the larger mystic somehow failing to pin down the plump little Storm Warden. Two of the Redeemer’
s crew were obviously dead. Ayesha was also down, but clutching her leg and cursing loudly. The three survivors stood over her, using their spears to fend off twice their number of hardened mercenaries.
Ulrich ran over, dropped back into a fighting stance.
One of the mercenaries saw him, turned.
Ulrich cut him down. And the next man. And the next.
He passed through the professional soldiers like a dancer making his way down the line at a wedding.
The last man stumbled away clutching the stump of his wrist.
Ulrich tensed to spring after him, finish the job. Instead he forced himself to stop and check his sailing mistress.
‘Go,’ said Ayesha. She bit back a groan. ‘Save the Storm Warden.’
Santino’s Earth Warden now sat astride Stochastus, trying to punch him in the face while the latter squirmed and wriggled.
Ulrich ran the Earth Warden through the back and kicked the dying man off his friend.
A female scream cut through the sound; not so much a scream as a great bird of prey roaring a challenge. Lady Brightfeather stood on the balustrade of her balcony, arms and legs spread, head thrown back, tendrils of lightning writhing across her body. The scream mingled with the howl of a rising wind.
The world tilted… or rather the clouds raced past overhead.
Air currents roared between the buildings, plucked at roof tiles, buffeted Ulrich and his crew.
The buccaneers battling at the temple entrance faltered. A couple of men turned and ran. Then a half-dozen. Then a score, until only the temple guards remained: twelve warriors standing shoulder to shoulder, big shields locked, war gear splintered and dented and notched, mounds of corpses at their feet.
Stochastus nudged Ulrich. ‘We’re being summoned, Heritor.’
Lady Brightfeather now stood more demurely behind the balustrade, her headdress snaking in the wind she had called up. One arm rested on the shoulders of a supporting attendant, the other waved in invitation.
Two of the crew picked up Ayesha. ‘We won!’ she shouted above the rising storm. ‘Now let’s get inside.’
* * *
The wind pushed at Ulrich. It whistled against the edge of his helmet, chilled the exposed skin of his face and hands. Beside him, the crew weaved and stumbled like drunks. The plump Storm Warden danced, braids and streams alive in the air currents.
Frostgrave: Ghost Archipelago: Tales of the Lost Isles Page 17
