The Horse Lord (The Book of Years Series 1)

by Peter Morwood

  «Hautmarin, I’m not travelling with written authority, so I can’t fetch it. Just call this an exchange of confidences. I might need the information later.»

  «Sir, Grand Warlord Etzel paid a sorcerer to set a wish-wind in the sails of the Fleet’s battlerams, so we can go where we please. I don’t like it, sir. Magic was proscribed for years and we shouldn’t be making so free with it now.»

  «Since I wasn’t here, hautmarin, I have no opinion about—» Ar Korentin broke off as Kyrin shouted, pointing at the sky, where the long-glass had revealed an approaching seagull to be nothing of the sort.

  Aldric seized the glass, raised it to his eye, and when he flinched Dewan grabbed him by one shoulder. “What the hell is it?”

  “I can’t give you a name.” Aldric could taste acrid bitterness under his tongue. So soon after Esel, he thought, and felt a shiver crawl along his spine. “But it’s looking for—”

  A whistling shriek drowned him out as the isghun passed overhead, and En Sohra’s deck blinked dark as its wings shaded the sun. The spellbeast turned with heavy, ominous grace and came back low and fast at wave-top height, the storm-wind of its passage raising a whirl of disturbed water in its wake. For an instant Aldric met the demon’s eyes. The force of its inhuman gaze was like a blow and there was recognition in it.

  As the isghun soared back into the hard blue sky he unhooked Widowmaker’s crossbelt and laid hand to hilt, aware of how small he and the taiken were beside the monster’s bulk. He noticed other things too: how his hand trembled, how windblown hair and clothing stuck to skin already chilled by sweat, how he felt more alone than ever in his life.

  And more afraid. Esel had at least been manlike and familiar. This thing was not.

  When the isghun poised on one wingtip and dived, his last rational thought before reflex took over was disbelief that anything so big could move so fast. The descent was almost vertical, and the warbling howl as it plunged down was a sound to freeze men like mice beneath a kestrel. Aldric flung himself to one side just as its shadow flashed across En Sohra, and a rending crash right at his heels made the ship vibrate from deck to keel.

  He kept his balance with an effort, then looked up and further up at where the creature’s tail had whiplashed around the companion-ladder where he’d been standing, wrenched it clean out of the deck and dragged it into the air. If that had been him, they would even now be heading for Dunrath. Instead the stairway fell in a slow end-over-end tumble through three hundred feet of clear air until it smashed to matchwood against Aalkhorst’s armoured stern.

  Aldric could hear the sonorous whine as air pumped through great vents in the spellbeast’s wings, driven by contractions of muscle to thrust it forward. That gave a clue to what might prove its weakness. Once again the isghun made a lazy circuit of the ship, then broke off and plunged straight towards him. Once again it made that rising howl but, if the sound was meant to shock prey into stillness, it succeeded no better than the first time. Over-eager to reach its elusive victim, the isghun slammed into En Sohra’s mainmast with an impact that sprang timbers all over the merchant vessel, then slewed across the deck fighting to stay airborne.

  There was a snap! behind him, and something went over his head with the purring drone of a startled partridge to smack into the monster’s flank. He knew the sound of a sling in action, and if this thing could be hurt at all, blunt heavy slugs would cause more damage than any arrow. Kyrin’s sling snapped again and this time he actually saw the slug punch a ragged hole in soft otherworld flesh.

  The isghun thrashed and bellowed as air rushed into its wing-vents, and Aldric guessed what was about to happen. He grabbed a handful of rigging and held on tight as muscles contracted and the demon’s indrawn breath came jetting out, blasting its body upwards and hurling three men overboard. That surge took it straight overhead, and when Widowmaker sheared across the swollen belly above him Aldric was almost deafened by the isghun’s screech. It lurched sideways, half its body deflated like a burst wine-skin, but it still struggled into the air just as its lashing tail finally wrapped round his legs.

  The brutal grip jerked him upside-down, smashing him first against the deck then against En Sohra’s sterncastle as his taipan shortsword came free, sliding between the side-rails and over the side. Tail and legs were so entangled that cutting one with a taiken’s long blade risked cutting the other, but Aldric still closed both hands on the longsword’s hilt. Losing a foot was better than what Kalarr and Duergar had in store.

  Then he slammed back onto the deck, a length of severed tail uncoiling from his kicking legs and the vinegary stench of its blood in his nostrils. That same glutinous blood dripped from Kyrin’s sword, the loops of her sling hung from her other wrist, and when she jumped clear of the wrecked companion-ladder a lead slug as big as a quail’s egg fell free and rattled across the deck.

  Aldric dredged up a quick grin of thanks then scrambled to his feet and ran towards the stern. He could see at once what his cut to the creature’s underside had done. The injury left it unbalanced, able to manage only sluggish oblique swoops while the Aalkhorst closed with white water boiling from her prow.

  Dewan and Hautmarin Doern were both at the starboard rail, and as Aldric drew level with him the Imperial officer made a fist and thumped it down. In response the warship loosed a full salvo from her forward batteries, a storm of searing fire-bolts that made the isghun shudder in mid-air.

  From the moment when two turrets had been enough to fill En Sohra’s deck with bolts, Aldric guessed the battleram carried something out of the ordinary. He was right. Those turrets carried quick-firing catapults wound and triggered by the same geared mechanism. They could shoot as fast as their crews could crank them, crews who had never cranked as fast as they were doing now.

  Wings shredded and body riddled with gaping holes, the isghun heeled over towards the waiting sea, trailing a long scarf of smoke as it voiced a rising shriek of pain, or rage, or frustration, or some inhuman response of its own. An instant before it struck water the creature winked out of existence as if it had never been there at all. Only the drift of fading smoke and En Sohra’s battered condition proved otherwise. Doern watched his battleram swing towards them and drew a long deep breath before settling his helmet back in place.

  “What was that?”

  “Sent by my enemies.” Aldric felt unsteady and very tired. “I told you they were powerful.”

  “Not how powerful.” Hautmarin Doern cleared his throat and spat across the rail. “I know now what I dislike about sorcery. Every hell-damned detail! Good luck to you, Elthanek.” He swung outboard and down towards his waiting cutter. “You need it.”

  The wish-wind filled Aalkhorst’s sails and with a rustle of canvas she drew away from En Sohra before turning in a leisurely, arrogant sweep, flaunting her armoured might to everyone aboard the merchantman. As she swung onto a parallel course the battleram’s bow rose and foam creamed from her ram as she came slicing past. A surge of wash made the merchantman roll, and by the time she settled again Aalkhorst was already dwindling towards the horizon.

  *

  As they started putting their damaged ship to rights the Elherran crew avoided Aldric, clearly blaming him for what had happened. Slumped in a quiet corner of the deck with knees drawn up and head resting on his folded arms, he waited for the trembling to stop and didn’t care what anyone thought. Kyrin sat beside him, scrubbing with oil and white sand at where the isghun’s blood had discoloured her sword.

  “Aldric-ain,” she said, “there’s something going on aboard this ship.”

  “It’s not the ship, and it’s not my business.”

  “I think it is.” Once she told him of the look she’d seen pass between Barrankal and ar Korentin, and the supposed secrecy of what Hautmarin Doern had said, he realised she was right. This affair had become his business just by him being here.

  “It isn’t that we didn’t trust you,” ar Korentin said when the questions stopped. “The fewe
r know of this, the better. You were one; your ignorance kept you honest, and you told Doern what you were sure was the truth. It’s always far more persuasive than the best lie. He was already half-convinced there was nothing aboard, so the gold we—”

  “Gold?” A coin dropped at last. “You mean the roofing lead in the hold is—”

  “Bullion, plated with lead. Gold’s far heavier, but how many people get a chance to heft the difference? It’s to finance some thorns in Etzel’s side, just as he financed Duergar Vathach. You should approve.”

  Aldric stared at him, face devoid of expression. “Ignorance equals honesty,” he repeated, as if tasting the words, then a faint smile twitched his mouth. “You’re a devious bastard.”

  “One of my many talents.”

  Down on deck Kyrin listened and grinned, appreciating the trick. Then she stiffened and gripped her estoc’s hilt, because there was a soft fluttering noise behind her and its source was moving. She half-turned, bared her teeth at a ball of pallid jelly hovering on small wings beside the rail and slashed the thing in half.

  Then she cleaned her sword again.

  *

  Kalarr jerked back from his magic mirror and spat an oath.

  “You’ve lost them now,” said Duergar, torn between annoyance and smug delight at seeing cu Ruruc made foolish. “What will you do?”

  “We,” Kalarr emphasised the plural, “will wait until he comes back. Which he will, for you if nothing else.” He ignored the way Duergar flinched and turned to Baiart, watching from the shadows by the door. “You said one was the king’s man. Do you know what that means?”

  Baiart shook his head.

  “It means, my friend,” the word dripped vitriol, “your brother has spoken to King Rynert. From here on, you will not go back to Cerdor.”

  “I can—” Baiart started, then fell silent before a glare from eyes as cold and empty as the spaces between the stars.

  “You can’t. You will never leave this citadel again.” Kalarr’s lips thinned above his teeth. “Not even to your own execution. And that, Clan-Lord Talvalin, is final.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Aldric Talvalin lay on his back, watching golden dapples of sunlight chase one another across his cabin ceiling and down a panelled wall as En Sohra rolled slowly on a deep-water swell. He had woken with the sunrise, aware the ship was lying at anchor but with no intention of leaving his bunk. It was narrow and hard, made up with sheets of linen cloth instead of the usual quilt and not really big enough for two to sleep in, never mind anything more active.

  With a little ingenuity, he and Kyrin had managed well enough.

  She was still draped across him, head cuddled against his chest so he felt the warmth of each tiny, purring breath, their limbs all tangled with each other and the sheets. Moving one hand up the smoothness of her back, Aldric twisted to kiss her on the cheek. Kyrin stirred drowsily and her eyelashes tickled him as she rolled over a little in the crook of his left arm.

  “I love you,” he whispered, touching her face with his lips. They were words that needed said even if she thought otherwise. Kyrin raised her head and opened her eyes wide, but thought better of it and half-closed them again. Aldric realised she hadn’t heard him, and her heavy-lidded gaze blunted the courage to repeat himself.

  “Put th’ light out,” she mumbled.

  “It’s the sun.”

  “Then pull th’ shutters.”

  “You’re closer.”

  Kyrin considered the suggestion then hit him with a pillow, and the resultant wrestling match worked through to its enjoyable conclusion. As they dozed in a cooling breeze from the still-unshuttered port, ar Korentin rapped on the door and called “Breakfast, if you want any!”

  Aldric caught a muted chuckle as the Vreijek walked away and tried to calculate the time. Indecently late, even for lovers. Grinning, he swung his feet to the deck.

  *

  The fine weather meant they could eat on deck under an awning, but Aldric was disinterested in food for once. Instead he spent much of his time leaning over the stern-rail with an untouched cup cradled in one hand, studying the green bulk of Techaur Island. The place was worth looking at, for someone who had seen nothing bigger than a lake-isle before, even though ‘worth looking at’ didn’t mean the same as ‘attractive’. Gemmel had told him too much for that. Aldric stared all through his meagre breakfast, and liked it no better at the end than when he started.

  Many of the so-called Thousand Islands earned their title only at low tide, spending the rest of their time awash. Techaur wasn’t one of them. Trees covered the single small peak overlooking the cove where En Sohra had dropped anchor, while cliffs rose sheer on one side and a headland sloped down on the other. There was a narrow beach between them as a landing-site, but frequent currents drew swirling, sinuous curves across the surface of the little cove and the ship strained at her cable each time, swinging stern-on towards rocks jutting like bared teeth at the foot of the cliffs.

  Kyrin watched sky and sea critically for a few minutes, and Aldric didn’t need a lesson in basic seamanship to know she didn’t like what she saw. “I’d rather be clear of this anchorage when the wind shifts.” En Sohra made another creak of timber and cordage and the cable thrummed taut. “Best not to linger. Find what you’ve come for and we’ll be away.”

  “Lower a boat, Master Barrankal,” Dewan was all brisk business, “and count off a few sailors to come with us.”

  “I will not,” said Hervits Barrankal. “No man of mine would heed me. No man of mine would go with you. Ask that one,” his thumb jabbed at Aldric. “does he feel what is in the air. Ask him! He knows.”

  Aldric could indeed sense something, but had no intention of admitting it. Not after the isghun. Instead his fingers closed on Widowmaker’s grip and he glowered at the man from under his brows. “Is it really your men? Or is it just you, and they’re a good excuse?”

  The Elherran’s dark face tightened. He was familiar enough with Alban to hear the sting in Aldric’s words, and for an instant it looked like there might be violence. Instead, after a few heavy-breathing seconds, Master Barrankal let loose a tirade of complaint in his own language, vehement enough that Dewan’s translation was clearly trimmed to something less provocative.

  “Shipmaster Barrankal wants you to know that he is not Alban, he is Elherran,” said ar Korentin, sounding like a schoolboy reciting a difficult lesson. “He wants you to know he owes loyalty to his own city’s First Council and not your foreign king, and any voyaging made for your foreign king is fair service for fair payment. He also wants you to know voyaging to Techaur is a favour to your foreign king, and no extra charge was made, but Drusalan warships and winged demons from the Pit were not part of the arrangement. He finally wants you to know that damage to En Sohra must be repaired in full, or your foreign king will get no further voyaging from Shipmaster Barrankal or other Shipmasters of Elherra or any other Captains they might speak to…”

  The monotone trailed away to silence as if there was no diplomatic way to say what came next.

  “And?” Aldric let go of Widowmaker’s hilt and a few seconds later managed to produce an acceptable smile. “I know that sort of hesitation, Dewan. What’s next?”

  “And Master Barrankal wants you to know that if you come back from the island, he will be pleased to ram your imputation of cowardice down your throat, if you have the courage to use a fighting-stave instead of steel.” Aldric’s hand twitched towards his taiken’s hilt again, but when Barrankal bared his teeth in a sarcastic grin he coloured, flexed his fingers and let the hand drop back to his side.

  “Fair enough. When we come back I’ll let him try.” He gave the Elherran shipmaster a small bow - not much more than a nod yet courteous enough in the circumstances. “What I said was wrong.”

  “You admit error?” Dewan sounded surprised.

  “I was worried and angry. I spoke without thinking. Why?”

  “Because it’s unusual for highb
orn Albans to apologise for anything.” The Vreijek didn’t need to add ‘especially to foreigners.’ “They say it shows weakness.”

  “I say it shows strength.” Aldric’s mouth twitched in a brief, crooked smile with little humour in it. “But then I’m an unusual highborn Alban.”

  Hervits Barrankal looked from Aldric to Dewan and back again, aware he had won the brief battle of wills and puzzled by the why or how. It made the big man magnanimous. “Rynert-King says: Master Barrankal, bring these three to Techaur Island. He does not say: Land there yourself. On voyages for Rynert-King, all orders are exact. Unless he says, Do a thing, the thing is not done. You understand?”

  “Completely,” said Aldric. “Just have the boat provisioned and lowered. We’ll do the rest. Will that keep your crew content?”

  “They stay aboard En Sohra?”

  “Yes. Yes they do.”

  As Aldric watched the ship’s longboat swung out to start its rope-squeaking descent to the sea a hand touched his arm, and when he looked to see why he caught the merest hint of a wink from Kyrin. Like any gambler she knew when to hold and when to fold, and appreciated how he had raised stakes then backed down. It had mastered Master Barrankal better than argument or threat. Except for a lack of crew, he was doing everything they wanted.

  “Have you ever rowed a boat?” she asked. Aldric shook his head.

  “Well, I have. Come on.”

  *

  They dragged the little rowboat up the shingle and Dewan tied it to a ponderous length of driftwood with a hitch more often used to secure horses. A pull in one direction would draw it tighter, a single hard tug at the other would release it at once.

  “Expecting to leave in a hurry?” asked Kyrin.

  “What I’m expecting doesn’t matter,” said Dewan. “But it might comfort the timid among us.”

  They were all wearing partial armour after Aldric insisted, and Dewan ar Korentin’s response to that insistence was low-level chaffing at someone who could face down a flying monster one day and be as anxious as an old woman the next. Except for dirty looks, Aldric hadn’t risen to the bait. After the Imperial battleram and the isghun some extra caution was justified, and the armoury in En Sohra’s forward hold confirmed it. There were spears and axes for a crew unused to more sophisticated weapons, there were helmets and shields, and hauberks of studded leather or rustproof marine-bronze mail swinging from hooks like hides in a tannery. Hautmarin Doern’s men must have seen them, yet said nothing. That silence said a great deal about the life of mariners plying their trade between Alba and the Empire.