Fires of Scorpio

by Alan Burt Akers

  Linson shared that view.

  “The commodore is signaling.” Bunting broke across the flagship’s rigging; this brought back the memories. Perhaps I was taking this whole naval excursion too matter-of-factly. I had simply drunk in the naval atmosphere, feeling back at home, and had taken for granted the romantic and dangerous elements inseparable from sea voyages on Kregen.

  The signals brought a change of course. I judged the commodore had no thought of avoiding the storm; he must be heading to gain the lee of an island. I scanned the horizon to larboard. No sign of land broke that shining surface. And the blackness of the gale reached higher and higher into the glowing sky.

  Presently the outriders of the storm arrived. The sea got up. The sky darkened. Tuscurs Maiden began to respond to the sea and her motion increased. The warships pulled ahead, angling their yards, trying to make a run for it. We watched them go, and lumbered along after.

  Thunder and lightning pelted down. The sky grew black. The sea writhed, and still no rain came sizzling down. Safety lines were rigged. The hatches were inspected. The canvas was reefed until we ran under a storm jib and a scrap aft. I would have preferred to have taken the canvas off the yards altogether; but Linson was the master.

  Pompino went below. The Relt stylor, Rasnoli, who to his surprise had been included in our expedition, took a bucket below. He, too, did not look too happy about the feathers. Poor Pompino.

  The gale, when at last it struck full force, was not as bad as I had expected. We managed to creep into the lee of an island and so rode out the worst. The darkness persisted. We heard a tremendous crash and the following yells and shrieks, and guessed two ships had collided. Linson looked calm and confident; but he strode his quarterdeck at a more rapid pace, trying to be everywhere at once.

  The gale lasted the rest of the day and most of the night. Linson handled his ship well. We kept up against the sea, only running away at the moment when to do anything else would have seen us dismasted and swamped. Toward morning the motion of the sea appreciably abated. A few stars pricked out above. We had lost no one overboard. The mercenaries were packed away below and no doubt were as green faced as poor Pompino.

  As the dawn broke luridly across the horizon and the sea, churned into long deep green rollers, bore on away ahead of us, Tuscurs Maiden began to resume her status as a sea-conquering vessel and not a mere half-drowned scrap of driftwood.

  A man climbed up onto the deck and, crossing to the side, looked over. He was apim, a paktun — he wore the silver mortilhead — and an archer. He wore a green tunic and gray trousers, and he looked useful. He saw me watching him.

  “Good morning, horter.”

  “Morning, Larghos.” His name was Larghos the Hatch, not a talkative man, and hired at the top going rate for a mercenary bowman who was not a Bowman of Loh.

  He pointed over the side. “I think he is done for.”

  I joined him and looked where his finger pointed.

  A man floated in the water. He clung to a splintered spar, and the sea spumed over him as though he were a submerged rock.

  “I do not think so. If he has been afloat all night—”

  “Then,” quoth Larghos the Flatch, stripping off his tunic, “he may be saved.” With that, he jumped over the side.

  The lookout was already yelling. Everything must be done nip and tuck, or we would lose Larghos. I could not fault his conduct; but Linson would probably rave.

  The air struck sweet and crisp after the gale. The Suns of Scorpio rose in their blaze of splendor. The sea opened out — empty of ships. We sailed alone upon that hostile sea in the dawning light.

  Linson and Naghan Pelamoin, his Ship-Hikdar, proved themselves fine seamen as they took way off the ship and rounded her to in the swell. A rope’s end was chucked down and Larghos the Flatch was hauled inboard. With him was pulled up a cursing, sodden, raving barrel of a man who shed water all over the deck and glared balefully about.

  “Welcome aboard, Captain,” said Linson. He spoke with great urbanity, but the transparency of his enjoyment was lost on no one.

  The fellow sputtered, spraying water. His hair hung plastered to his scalp. He looked obsessed with fury. Brick-red his face, ferocious his whiskers, brilliantly blue his eyes. He stamped and water squelched.

  “Aye, Cap’n Linson! You may laugh, by the Cross Eyes of the Divine Lady of Belschutz!”

  Pompino, looking gaunt, hurried on deck. He stared, appalled.

  “Captain Murkizon! Blackfang! Where is my beautiful Blackfang?”

  “Do not upset yourself, Horter Pompino! Blackfang still sails, Pandrite rot ’em! Sailed off and left me when the damned sea washed me overboard. I’ll have ’em all, I’ll trice ’em all up and strip their skins off jikaider — so help me!”

  “Fell overboard, did you, Captain?” said Linson. He radiated enjoyment.

  “Not fell overboard, you — you—” Murkizon dragged in a great breath of air and swung his arms. “Washed overboard!”

  I said casually, “Better get below, Captain, and dry off. Although you may have trouble finding dry clothes to fit you.”

  He swung to regard me, must have recognized me, must have practically decided what to reply, when the masthead lookout sang out, high and clear.

  “Swordship! Swordship!”

  “Thank Pandrite,” said Pompino, rushing to the rail. “It must be my lovely Blackfang.”

  We all stared, but of course we would not see the swordship for a space yet. The suns shone, Linson set the hands to their duty with a few dryly cutting words, and Murkizon took himself off to the galley to dry out. I perked up. Life was undoubtedly going to be more entertaining from now on.

  I was right in that. But the entertainment was far different from what I was expecting.

  The lookout called down information on the estimated course and speed of the swordship. He could not distinguish her colors at the distance, even with a balanced telescope, and her build meant she was low in the water and much like any other swordship — not all. I fancied that if some men I had known in my career were in command of Tuscurs Maiden they’d be up the ratlines like monkeys to take a damned good look at the fellow for themselves. Old Abe would, for a certainty.

  The breeze veered and backed uncertainly. Towards the hour of mid it settled down to a stiff westerly breeze. I sniffed the air. This amount of wind would be just about the maximum a swordship would tolerate. Here an interesting feature of the ships of Earth and of Kregen came into play, for ships and their rigging are designed in different ways on different coasts where the prevailing winds dictate what is the best sail plan. The argenters of North Pandahem usually carried a crossjack on their mizzen mast. Whilst the lateen was not unknown on Kregen, down south, instead of a pure lateen they used a kind of standing lug on the mizzen. The effect was to enable the argenter to sail a little more stiffly and keep her head more up into the wind. We were thus able to steer a good northerly course, resuming our onward progress.

  The lookout bellowed down that the swordship had disappeared. Pompino looked worried.

  “If my beautiful Blackfang is sunk...”

  “That could have been a rascally render,” I said. “If so, let us hope he is sunk.”

  Presently the lookout, a new man relieving the old, shouted down that smoke wafted over the horizon.

  “There,” said Captain Linson. “She was a Pandrite-forsaken render and she is burning one of our convoy.”

  Truth to tell, these distant events did seem to bear out that theory.

  Captain Murkizon came on deck wearing a long roll of blue cloth swathed about him. His hair bristled everywhere. He rolled as though he was a part of the ship.

  He and Larghos the Hatch put their heads together and spent some time talking. Although I saw no gold change hands, I felt sure a man of Murkizon’s stamp would for the sake of his own honor richly reward the man who had jumped into the sea to save him. This seemed fitting.

  A vague shape on the larboa
rd horizon that vanished astern was probably the island under whose lee we had sheltered during the earlier part of the storm before we had at last been blown downwind. We sailed on, a fine bluff argenter, smashing into the sea, leaving a broad creamy wake aft.

  Pompino was so far recovered as to sit down to a light meal toward the latter end of the afternoon. He made a number of uncomplimentary observations upon the habits of waves and storms, and mentioned that his insides must have been reamed out cleaner than a milk churn before milking time. We were all, in our various ways, kind to him. I managed to refrain from mentioning fatty vosk rashers; but with Pompino to goad into a frenzy the temptation was sore.

  Captain Murkizon reassured him, insisting that Blackfang still floated and was a perfect sailing and fighting instrument when he’d last seen her — in everything except her captain.

  Linson put a hand to his face.

  “It is a pity, Captain, that you did not have the time to knock your crew into shape.” He kept his hand half-concealing his smile, very sharp. “I’ll allow that if it had been me I’d have been tempted — with a crew like that — to have jumped overboard.”

  “Why, you—!” began Murkizon in a strangled scream.

  A sailor burst unceremoniously into the cabin.

  “Swordship!” he shouted. He looked wild, clinging to the door. “Swordship! She broke through a squall — she’s right on top of us!”

  In a yelling rout we broke for the deck. Sure enough, a squall feathered darkly away across the sea. Ahead, all her oars rising and falling like the wings of a bird of prey, the narrow shape of a swordship hurtled down on us.

  “Beat to quarters!”

  The scurry and rush, the slap of bare feet across planking, the clang and scrape of metal on metal as the varters were prepared, the insane racket of the alarm drum, all these things blended into a pandemonium that ceased as the Ship Deldar, Chandarlie the Gut, blew a long trill on his pipe. The ship stilled.

  “Cleared for action, Captain!”

  “Very good, Hikdar,” said Linson to Naghan Pelamoin.

  The hush laced with the slap of the sea, the creak of rigging and groan of timbers, impressed us all. One had to admit that Linson ran a taut ship.

  “Who is she?” demanded Pompino. He was clearly agitated. “She is not Blackfang?”

  Linson handed across his telescope.

  “See for yourself, horter.”

  Pompino studied the racing shape ahead.

  “All I can see is a black wedge and oars like wings.”

  “Aye. And her flags?”

  I caught Pelamoin’s eye. “Your telescope, Hikdar, if I may?”

  He handed the brass bound leather wrapped tube across without comment. I put it to my eye and studied the onrushing vessel. Well, yes, she was a swordship, and Pompino’s description was apt. The shape of her, wedgelike, low, with those banks of oars glistening and rising and falling, beating her on. The smother of white around her ram passed swiftly away aft. Her flags? Blue and green, with gold devices, stiff in the wind, difficult to make out.

  “You know her, Captain?”

  “She is not one of our escort, horter.”

  “I see.”

  Bearing to quarters was not a precautionary measure, then. I handed the telescope back.

  “I’ll just fetch a few weapons from the armory, Pompino. Maybe we can fletch a few before they board.”

  At this he changed completely. From a landlubber who had recently bought a fleet of ships — with the gold given him by the Star Lords, of course — and in constant anxiety for the well-being of his beautiful vessels, he became my companion of old, a rough tough fighting man contemptuous of opposition, ready to fight with the best. Out of his element he had been becoming almost querulous. Now there was the prospect of a few handstrokes in the offing, he reverted to his usual arrogant happy Khibil self. He brushed his whiskers up fiercely.

  “Aye Jak! We’ll show the cramphs!” We fetched weapons. We prepared. With the men at their stations and the girls at their varters, the complement of Tuscurs Maiden waited for the coming attack.

  Chapter twelve

  Concerning the Swordship Redfang

  The Suns of Scorpio hung low above the horizon streaming their mingled opaz radiance across the sea in paths of viridian and vermilion. A scattering of sea birds screamed and swung away. The dark blot of an island showed stark against the sky as the squall whisked past. The swordship had shot from the island’s shelter. The squall had concealed her. Now she bore down upon us with her cruel bronze ram slicing through the sea as it would slice through our timbers.

  Although clearly Captain Linson was a consummate seaman, the task of handling Tuscurs Maiden in battle against a swordship was of the order of scaling a mountain peak with your hands tied behind your back and wearing skis.

  His sharpness was never in more evidence.

  His orders rapped out. The hands rushed to obey. The yards braced around, the argenter’s head fell off, and with the wind up her tail Tuscurs Maiden took off directly eastwards. The evolution was conducted smartly. With a vessel of even moderate speed, speed equal to that of the swordship chasing us, or the speed of a Vallian galleon, he would have outrun our pursuer. But the vessel was an argenter, slow and lubberly.

  The swordship balked in her first initial rush to ram, swung about to follow, sheeted in spray, like a crocodile smashing through the water.

  Pelamoin said: “Nogoya. She’s a damned swordship out of Nogoya.”

  Pompino shook his sword at the pursuing vessel.

  “That Pandrite-forsaken island is too big for its boots. They think they own the seas.”

  “At least, they control the seas here, and we have strayed into their area. They will not seek to destroy us, Horter Pompino, but to board and enslave us. They use slaves.”

  “Then my hand is turned against them,” I said.

  Captain Murkizon swaggered forrard from the after castle. He carried three swords in various hangings from his belt, and he swung a vicious looking double-headed axe.

  “The best way to deal with these rasts is to hit ’em before they know! Hit ’em, knock ’em down, and jump on ’em!”

  This seemed an eminently sensible idea. As to its practicability, that would have to be proved.

  On a dead run to leeward the swordship hoisted a scrap of sail on her foremast. She leaped after us. I walked aft, up through the sterncastle, and peered out alongside a varter which snouted from its port.

  Wilma the Shot said: “I’ll guarantee to land a rock right on the head of that fellow up front.”

  A light laugh from the gloom of the aftercastle drew my attention to Wilma’s sister. Alwim the Eye patted her varter. A heavy and exceedingly ugly-looking dart lay in the trough. The dart was of iron, and multi-barbed.

  “And I’ll shove this right down the gullet of that archer next to your fellow, sister.”

  From the armory I’d taken one of Pompino’s bows. It was compound, reflex, a sound weapon if without the range of a Lohvian longbow. For the kind of work we envisaged, this boy would suit perfectly.

  “And what do you ladies leave me?”

  “Why — that rast at their bow varter.”

  “I see him.” He wore a leather jerkin whose brass studs winked brightly in the dying light. As I watched he bent to the weapon. “He is about to loose.”

  “More fool him,” said Wilma.

  The rock struck somewhere below. The water muffled its force. The brass-studded figure bent frantically to his windlass. In only a moment more, as the ships neared, the range would be admirable. Had Seg been here, with his bow, he’d have shafted the whole forecastle party, the whole lot of the prijikers who clustered ready to leap onto our deck.

  Pompino joined me with Murkizon. We watched as the swordship swept in on our tail.

  “He’ll have a job trying to ram and board from there,” said Murkizon, “may the Crooked Left Arm of the Divine Lady of Belschutz smite him.”

&
nbsp; Chandarlie the Gut appeared, squinting over the stern.

  “The cap’n says for me to shout when that damned swordship is about to ram.”

  “Aye,” said Murkizon. “Then he’ll swing his stern. He’ll make the cramph miss, if he’s lucky and fast enough.”

  Pompino looked at me and I said: “Don’t pin your hopes on it. Swordships have a habit of sticking their teeth in.”

  “I do not relish being made slave.”

  “Who does?”

  Men clustered above us on the open top of the stern castle. Their feet drummed on the planking. Wilma bent to her varter. The arms were drawn fully back, the string taught, the rock positioned. Her sister called across. “My dart first, I think, sister.”

  “Aye, sister.”

  The dart flew.

  The archer took the dart in his midriff, and the fellow abaft of him took the dart, also, as well as the third in that group. Alwim the Eye let out a delighted crow and bent to the windlass. The Rapa, Rondas the Bold, bulky in his mail, bent to help her. I felt surprise, and then pleasure.

  The other varter clanged. The rock squashed down on the head of the fellow Wilma had pointed out. She, too, let out a pleased cry. I lifted the bow. Before I loosed, an arrow streaked across the narrowing gap and pierced through the varterist who had been my target. Someone on the top of our sterncastle, with the advantage of height, had loosed first.

  That, then, was where I should have been — as an archer. As a swordsman I would be better where I was.

  My own shaft took the varterist’s mate.

  Then a shower of arrows whistled toward us, and some stuck in the wood and a few shrieked through the stern ports. No one was hit. I nocked another shaft and loosed. The varters clanged again. The ram of the swordship foamed on, drawing closer and closer. The shadows angled more levelly across the deck from the stern ports, and soon the swordship would be a mere lump of darkness against the suns set.