by A. Evermore
The sun rose in the sky as the hour passed and Marakon was just about to leave the deck to get his hessel leaf pouch when a sailor cried out from above. He was high up the mast, dangling like a monkey on the rigging, shouting and pointing to the western horizon.
Bokaard grabbed his spyglass and Marakon ran to the side of the helm. At least a dozen tiny black specs dotted the horizon. Whilst Bokaard was busy with the spyglass, Marakon lifted up his patch and stared at the strange looking boats hurtling towards them.
Histanatarns, no mistake. Though they had humanoid bodies they somehow seemed closer in appearance to fish than people. He could see clearly their nutmeg coloured skin with that unmistakable green gleam. They had scales rather than human flesh and their ears fanned out from their heads like small fins. Their fingers and feet were webbed, their fair hair was more like spikes than human hair. They were smaller than humans and slender to the point of skinny but wiry and strong. Some say they were the unholy alliance of human and fish, though no records remained of such a union. The sea-bound people were moving close fast.
‘How come we did not spot them sooner?’ Bokaard said, peering through his spyglass.
Marakon hadn’t seen them either, even with his left eye. ‘We didn’t see them before because they were not there! What do you see, Captain?’ Marakon asked as he dropped his patch, knowing full well what the captain saw.
‘If we weren’t so far east of their cursed kingdom I would have said Histanatarns, Commander. They are moving so fast… Nothing moves at that speed on water,’ Bokaard said, passing him the spyglass, ‘it must be magic.’
‘Not a magic that we know of,’ Marakon growled, putting the spyglass to his good eye, but he couldn’t see nearly as far or as clearly through it as with his white eye. ‘Histanatarns, no doubt about it,’ he breathed, ‘those bastards have come a long way east. In league with Baelthrom no doubt and without Drax to give them a beating this ocean is now their own.’
The Histanatarns inhabited the remote clusters of hundreds of tiny islands called Histanatarn lying to the north directly between the Uncharted Lands and Drax and they were loathed by everything and everyone except other Histanatarns. Vicious and greedy they had no care for life. They enjoyed killing, dominion over all living things gave them strength and brought them closer to their god, Ex, a god of fear and domination.
Bokaard spat in disgust. ‘Fight and die. None of us will end up in their blood rites and nothing will be left for them to steal!’
No one really knew what happened once captives were taken to Histanatarn because no one ever escaped alive. Only magic wielders scrying were able to catch glimpses of the enslaved victims, and none of it was good. It seemed all the victims were sacrificed at the end of whatever pitiful lives they were allowed to live. Shrouded in mystery horror stories abounded - stories mothers used to get their children to behave, otherwise the “sea devils” would get them.
Marakon stared at the approaching boats. They were low and flat and had no sails, so how did they move so fast?
‘We cannot outrun those boats,’ Bokaard said.
‘And why should we?’ Marakon grinned. ‘No Feylint Halanoi ever fled from Histanatarns and we’re all itching for a fight. Prepare for battle, Captain, it looks like fish for lunch!’
Bokaard laughed deep and loud as Marakon passed him back the spyglass.
‘Prepare for battle!’ Marakon yelled as hard as he could, ‘enemy to port.’
The crew scrambled to his orders and Bokaard took the helm with a devilish grin.
In a matter of minutes the Atalanphian harpoons were at the ready, their vicious tips shone in the sunlight as they pointed out from the gunwales. Those tips were set with explosive enchantments, which is why they shone so brightly.
The small Histanatarn boats numbered in their fifties and, despite the five large, menacing and fully armed Atalanphian war ships now awaiting their approach, they did not slow and the gap between them was closing quickly. The Feylint Halanoi were outnumbered and they knew it, but aboard each ship were some of the best and seasoned soldiers Marakon had, and they were hungry for battle. Like their very name meant in the Ancient’s tongue, “freedom or death”; the Feylint Halanoi were ready to fight and die.
Marakon gripped the pommel of his sheathed sword, the thought of battle after so long at sea filled him with relief mixed with the usual knotting in his stomach of pre-battle anxiety. It had been a week or so of sailing and nothing to show for it. He had hoped for Maphraxie blood today but it seemed these fish dogs would have to do.
The Histanatarns slowed and spread out before them, stopping just out of range of their arrows and harpoons. Their pale yellow boats were long and thin and shallow, not built for long journeys for they offered no shelter or place to sleep. Had they come all the way from Histanatarn?
Marakon could not see any paddles or sails to explain how they travelled at such speed in the water. They seemed to be powered by something spinning on the stern. It looked like a long hollow drum on its side, like the wheel of a windmill. Just under the first wheel he could see another submerged in the water. Maybe more ran on the underside of the boats but he couldn’t see. The faster they turned the faster the boats moved, churning up large sprays of water behind them. Two rudders were attached either side of the wheels. He noticed a shimmer around them, the tell-tale signs of enchantments.
So they used magic to power the boats, and that suggested wizards aboard them, he thought and scowled for he had only two magic wielders to counteract them, and neither of those were that experienced in combat magic. They were skilled mostly in managing the weather surrounding the ships; more wind, less wind, wind in a different direction type of thing, and in cloaking magic.
Marakon discreetly half-lifted his eyepatch and continued his swift analysis of the enemies’ vessels. If he survived this day he would detail the ships to his superiors and wizards so they could copy the design and add them to their own fleet.
Aboard each boat sat at least twenty Histanatarns. They snarled like animals as they brandished their long spears - spears complete with a barbed hook to make sure they stayed stuck in whatever they pierced. Those spears also shimmered, more enchantments, Marakon thought wearily.
Marakon dropped his eye patch. If there weren’t so many of them it would have been a fair fight. Bokaard turned to look at him watching pensively and the ship’s crew waited in silence for their orders, their eyes locked onto the enemy. Sweat beaded on the soldiers’ faces though it was cold. His small band of five ships, each carrying fifty soldiers aboard, sat silently bobbing on the waves drifting further into the Lost Sea and further away from land.
Everything seemed remarkably still and calm in these few seconds before the violence, something that always struck Marakon as rather profound. He considered his options swiftly, the calm silence would not remain forever. The Histanatarns remained out of firing range, which at least showed they were wary. Their own lances could easily sink through the enemy’s small boats if they came within range.
A short sharp high-pitched bark from one of the Histanatarns sent Marakon’s adrenaline surging. In a blink half of the Histanatarns jumped ship and disappeared into the water, leaving their long spears aboard the boats.
So, they attacked first and planned to board and fight on our ships, Marakon thought. Though why they left their spears behind was a mystery. They would be armed with knives though, that much was clear.
Marakon barked orders and pulled his sword from its scabbard. Soldiers scuttled to obey, readying their weapons for close contact. Axes were lifted, ready to cut the hooks and ropes that they knew would fly over the sides of the ships. Marakon checked a dagger was hidden in his shirt and another tied to his thigh. He bent to check another blade always stowed beneath the captain’s wheel but it was not there.
Bokaard winked at him and tapped under his thick coat. The big man carried lots of knives. From experience they both knew the Histanatarns were dirty fighters. They w
atched the enemy dart under the surface towards them quick as fish. They were soon in easy range.
At Marakon’s orders a shower of arrows cut through the water. Like a shoal of fish moving as one the Histanatarns dived deeper, escaping the arrows. Dark patches of red blotched the surface where some had not been quick enough. They surfaced under the ships in no time, hugging the curve of the hull closely so the archers could not get the angle to shoot them.
As anticipated their thin metallic ropes, complete with barbed hooks, shot out of the sea and hooked onto the deck. Soldiers ran to cut them loose as the Histanatarns started climbing. They hacked at the thin rope but it would not cut and instead left notches in the axes themselves.
‘Enchanted, Sir, or something!’ screamed the nearest soldier only to fall back and slash with his axe as a Histanatarn swung up before him. Rather than hacking the ropes they now hacked at the enemy clambering over the side. The Histanatarns were small and nimble and swung adeptly on the ropes dodging their blades. It was not long before the decks were teaming with them and the bloody battle began.
Two green-scaled Histanatarns swung over the side and approached Marakon, each brandishing a curved, wickedly sharp blade. Another high-pitched cry came from the Histanatarns still aboard their boats. Marakon glanced back out to sea as he swung his sword, forcing the Histanatarns back from him. The Histanatarn boats had come closer now that the enemy was too busy to fire the harpoons. They had taken up the spears left behind by the others. At another strange screaming order the Histanatarns raised and aimed them.
We cannot possibly be in range of those hand-held spears, Marakon thought anxiously but he did not want to risk it. He yelled out an order as he slashed back at the enemy.
‘Man the harpoons, open fire! Quickly now.’
Those able and nearest the harpoons jumped to do his bidding and in seconds they sprang into action. Long shining spears shot forwards. Hastily aimed, many fell short but some hit their targets. They slammed into the wooden boats and exploded. The enchantments had worked! Wood, sea and blood sprayed into the air as eight boats were obliterated and several more heavily damaged.
In the same instance dozens of shining spears fell from the sky. One struck inches into the wood not a foot from where Marakon stood. The closest Histanatarn also narrowly missed it. Many spears found their targets for the enemy had had time to aim before firing and the Feylint Halanoi were woefully exposed.
A short squat soldier in front of Marakon, he recognised the female dwarf from the Haralan excursion, stopped swinging her sword and turned with a look of surprise on her face. She took one step forward staggering against the spear that had struck through her throat and out of her ribs. He couldn’t help her and all he could do was stare in horror as she dropped her sword and toppled over the side of the ship, immediately sinking from the weight of her armour.
Anger surged in Marakon’s veins and he lunged forwards, his sword slicing into the belly of the Histanatarn before him. He did not slow until he came upon the one she had been fighting. It howled in battle-fury and came to meet him, its strange glassy yellow eyes gleamed with hatred. But Marakon struck so hard and so fast his sword all but fell through the Histanatarn’s flimsy armour. He whirled to face another as it fell gurgling blood to the floor.
Now Marakon understood why they had left their spears aboard. The enemy now on deck yanked their spears free from their bloody targets and used them as weapons along with their knives.
In his peripheral vision Marakon saw many of his soldiers fall in the onslaught but the only emotion he was able to feel was an all-consuming battle fury as he, like everyone else, fought two Histanatarns at once. He could not recognise their faces for all was blur but he knew most of those aboard his ship. He had no idea where Bokaard was but the man was as good a fighter as he was. Another screaming order cut through the din of clashing blades and screams of pain. He glanced behind him and saw the enemy taking aim once more.
‘Take cover,’ he screamed.
He lunged forwards again sinking his sword between the ribs of his enemy and in one smooth motion hurled it sideways over the side of the ship, noticing absently how the sparkling blue sea was turning dark with blood. He whirled to face another Histanatarn that had swiftly taken its comrade’s place.
Marakon slammed himself back against a mast as more spears peppered the deck. But despite his warning many failed to find suitable cover. Some were impaled to the deck, trapped by their own limbs, and made easy pickings for Histanatarn knives. It was some respite that, despite their speed and fearless ferocity, it still took two Histanatarns to one of his soldiers to even have a chance of bringing them down. It evened out their numbers somewhat, he thought, at least they would take many Histanatarns with them before they died.
‘Fire,’ Marakon screamed, not even knowing if anyone was able to man the harpoons. ‘Fire at will!’
To his relief harpoons blasted outwards in unison from the gunwales again, this time with deadly precision. The big ships rocked sideways with the blast. Scores of enemy boats were hit, the enchanted tips exploded on impact, killing everything near them in an explosion of sparks and fire. The harpoons were being reloaded, but on seeing the destruction many of the Histanatarns now jumped from their boats as they fired again. More enemy vessels were destroyed but most of the Histanatarns were now headed to the Atalanph ships ready to join their comrades.
Now the enemy streamed over the sides and the fighting became cramped and desperate. Screams and shouts and the clang of metal against metal filled the air as the sun reached its zenith in the clear blue skies. Blood and gore slopped over the decks and both Feylint Halanoi and Histanatarns slipped and fell, turning the battle into a savage kind of drunken brawl.
Marakon nimbly dodged a slice from the curved blade of a Histanatarn who jumped in front of him out of nowhere, only to find himself sliding the same distance. He staggered against the railing and steadied himself, barely striking back its flashing blade.
He swung his sword arm back and with the pommel punched the face of the enemy. In the same motion his left hand grasped the hilt of his second blade from his sword belt and he drove it upwards. It found home in the soft underside of the Histanatarn’s chin. Surprise took over the hatred within glassy yellow-green eyes. Marakon twisted his knife before jerking it free. The Histanatarn shuddered and fell to the floor, blood spurting in a macabre red fountain from its neck.
Another set upon him immediately and another somersaulted over the side of the ship behind him. He was forced to whirl around to keep them both in view. They approached him slowly, eyes glittering, webbed feet splayed on the deck making them more stable than he was in the slippery blood.
Marakon licked his lips, eyes darting from one to the other. He could take two at once, he thought, eyes fixed upon their glistening blades, but they came from opposite sides. He lunged towards one and slashed as he passed but the enemy dodged his blade, as he knew it would. He whirled around and had both before him. Slowly, with his sword raised ready, he backed away to buy some time and let them think he was afraid. They continued to advance until his back touched the mast and could go no further. Not taking his eyes off them he sheathed his second blade and wound his free hand above him around the rigging.
One lunged for him. He parried the long curved knife and shoved his boot into its chest flinging it back hard against his companion. At least he thought it was a he, it was impossible to tell. Perhaps if Marakon had had more time he would be able to see what was male and what was female. Whatever they were they recovered quickly and both lunged at him. At the last moment Marakon jumped and heaved himself up and away from their slashing blades. At the same time he sliced his sword down and around with such speed and force he beheaded one and sliced through the skull of the other.
Blood and grey matter spewed over the deck and Marakon’s stomach heaved. He landed back on his feet but there was no rest as more came for him. He tried to pull his arm free from the rigging to r
each his knife but his hand was stuck. Cursing savagely he tried to yank it free.
Pain seared his right side as a tiny blade flung from his new opponent sunk between his lower ribs. It only just missed his lung and found its home in a body cavity. It didn’t lessen the pain though and his vision blurred with the agony. He fought to control his senses as hot blood soaked down his clothes and pooled in his boot.
Marakon turned to anger to shut out the pain and swung his sword with his free hand. The Histanatarn dodged it but despite his webbed feet he still slipped in the blood, giving Marakon the second he needed to hit him hard on the shoulder with the heavy pommel. He felt a crunch as the shoulder collapsed and the Histanatarn screamed in pain. Marakon drove down again with his pommel and the Histanatarn fell beside the others.
In the next blessedly free moments Marakon wiggled his arm loose of the rigging, and caught his breath. He fumbled for the knife in his side and eased it out with a grimace. Hot blood spurted over his fingers and his vision swam sickeningly. His eyes stung from sweaty blood. He lifted his eye patch to wipe away the blood that had trickled into it. Ripping off part of his undershirt he tied it firmly around his side to stem the flow. There was little he could do, the battle was nowhere near over and at this stage he couldn’t tell if they were winning or losing.
For the moment no Histanatarns approached and, leaving his patch off in the hope that he would see more clearly without it, he ran to help the nearest soldier. In his haste he stumbled over the body of a young soldier sprawled atop a dead Histanatarn. The anger and remorse hit before he knew he recognised that face.
Lanac was gone.
His tanned skin was grey and blood smeared. Marakon wanted to reach down and close those open blue eyes but there was no time to do it. That made him more furious. His eyes rested upon another unmoving young soldier, the plaited long hair of the young tracker woman all matted with blood. A spear still stuck out of her pinning her to the deck. Another young man’s bloodied face he did not recognise lay unmoving beside her.
