The Night of the Swarm (Chathrand Voyage 4)

by Robert V. S. Redick

  ‘Right, and that was simple,’ said Neeps. ‘She can tell that the Storm’s paler to the west, and she must know we mean to pass through. This is an ugly business, mates.’

  Pazel crossed the deck to the 48-pounder cannon, where Thasha stood with Ramachni. The mage was still perched atop the gun, looking southwards, and holding exceptionally still. Thasha put a finger to her lips. Ramachni was up to something. They waited, leaning slightly together, as gun crews stormed around them and topmen scrambled in the rigging like nimble cats and battle-netting was stretched overhead.

  At last Ramachni turned from his vigil. He looked at them sombrely. ‘We must prepare,’ he said.

  ‘For a firefight?’ said Pazel. ‘But that’s exactly what we’re doing.’

  ‘Not just for a firefight. We must prepare for slaughter. Macadra has no plans to capture us. If she offers clemency, it will be a ruse to secure our surrender. She wants us dead.’ He paused. ‘She also thinks the Chathrand will burn much longer than the Promise.’

  ‘You read her mind?’

  ‘The surface, Pazel. The outer thoughts and feelings, as Arunis did with many of you before his death. It could be a façade, or some other subtle ploy, but I doubt that. She is not in a subtle mood.’

  ‘Why does she care how long the Chathrand will burn?’ asked Thasha.

  ‘Because she is prepared to torch us entirely and then pluck the Nilstone from the flames.’

  Pazel had a sense that the world was about to implode. As though they were all trapped in a crate and hearing the approach of some gigantic wheel. Thasha gave him a searching look. He dropped his eyes in shame.

  ‘Don’t say it. I was wrong. I’m glad you still have some wine.’

  ‘Can you stop her, Ramachni?’ Thasha asked.

  ‘Stop her? I would stand some chance, if it came to a duel. But that hardly matters now. I cannot protect us from the Death’s Head, and its terrible weapons. Still, we have gained one advantage: this close to the Storm, Macadra will not likely be able to harness the winds, for the Storm itself is one great weather-spell, and mightier than any she could cast.’

  A sudden cry from above made Pazel flinch with apprehension. This time, however, the news was better than he or anyone had dared to hope. The gap had been sighted, some twenty miles dead ahead.

  The men cheered, though the terror of the enemy was great in them. Pazel took Thasha’s hand and drew it quickly to his lips. He caught Neeps’ eye from across the deck, and saw a new light there, an almost unbearable hope.

  Fiffengurt descended from the mast and made straight for the quarter deck, shouting as he went: ‘To the braces with your teams, gentle men! We shall come about, full to starboard! Mr Elkstem, lean on that wheel!’

  There was a new explosion of activity; five hundred men attacked the ropes. Thasha looked at Pazel, bewildered. ‘What’s he doing?’

  ‘Tacking closer to the Storm, but damned if I know why.’

  ‘We’ll go faster downwind.’

  ‘Of course, but how far? We have to break east or west eventually.’

  Fiffengurt climbed the ladder and helped Elkstem at the wheel. For many hours they had been obliged to follow a zigzag stitch across the seas. Exhausting tacks, endless reversals: but no ship could sail straight into a headwind. There was always, moreover, the danger of drifting into the Storm. Now Fiffengurt had them running straight for it.

  ‘Death’s Head trimming sails to match, Captain,’ boomed Fegin. ‘She’s got keen eyes, that witch.’

  ‘Right you are, first mate. Mr Coote, take thirty men to the cable tiers. I want extra stays on all five masts, coiled and ready to deploy. But keep ’em on the deck below, hard by the hatches but out of sight.’

  ‘The Turachs won’t like it, Captain – all that rope in their space.’

  ‘Perhaps they’d prefer six hundred enemy boarders in their space, bosun. You may enquire.’

  The Chathrand sliced a clean, sharp path towards the Storm. Pazel and Thasha went below with Coote’s thirty and helped wrestle the vast, awkward ropes up to the main deck. Pazel had the uncomfortable feeling that the effort was pointless, that Fiffengurt was merely trying to appear as though he had a plan. The winds were steady, but hardly strong enough to call for doubling the mast supports.

  ‘About six miles to the Storm front, Captain,’ shouted Fegin. ‘And still sixteen or more to the gap, if it’s really there. Enemy holding steady behind.’

  When they returned to the topdeck Ramachni was speaking with Kirishgán.

  ‘Your captain and his ship are as one,’ said the selk. ‘See how the men at each station look to their watch-captain, and the latter to the quarterdeck? They are speaking without words. Even Nólcindar would be impressed.’

  ‘Fiffengurt’s spent most of his life on this ship, the same as Captain Rose,’ said Pazel.

  ‘Which of them persuaded augrongs to join the crew?’ asked Kirishgán.

  He nodded in the direction of the No. 4 hatch. Pazel smiled. Refeg and Rer, the enormous anchor lifters, were slouching to points on either side of the mainmast. The sailors smiled at them too, from a distance.

  ‘Rose found them, and they’re worth their weight in gold,’ said Pazel, ‘but I can’t imagine what they’re doing up here. They’ve never helped out with the rigging before.’

  ‘We’ve never been so short-handed before,’ said Thasha.

  ‘Quite so,’ said Ramachni. ‘We may need every advantage left to us. I too must beg your pardon, Thasha: you were right to keep the wine. For once I am glad of your stubborn—’

  He broke off, his fur standing on end. His eyes snapped to the quarterdeck.

  A figure stood there, facing Elkstem and Fiffengurt, who recoiled in horror. A tall woman, chalk-white of skin, so gaunt and narrow-boned that she appeared almost stretched. Her eyes were fixed on the captain, and a long, bony finger was pointing at his heart. Pazel knew at once that he was looking at Macadra.

  Ramachni leaped from the cannon and raced towards the quarterdeck. Pazel and Thasha chased after him, though Pazel had no idea what they might be preparing to do. Up the ladder they rushed. The hideous woman turned her head and studied them – with recognition, Pazel thought, at least in Thasha’s case. But she’s never seen Thasha before. What does she sense?

  Ramachni stood between the sorceress and the wheel, teeth chattering with rage.

  ‘Macadra Hyndrascorm,’ he said, ‘we have slain your Plazic servants, your devil-dogs, your Thrandal ogress and the demon for whose services you mortified your flesh. We have slain your foul brother Arunis. Do you think you will be spared, if you impede us?’

  Her brother! thought Pazel.

  Macadra threw her head back violently, as though her neck had snapped. High laughter rang across the deck.

  ‘Impede us! Do you mark his words, Arunis? I had best break off the attack and run for Bali Adro, and leave the Nilstone in the keeping of Erithusmé’s mascot, and this ship of the diseased, the murderous, the mad.’ She lowered her head and pointed at Fiffengurt. ‘Turn the ship away from the Storm, Captain Fiffengurt! There need be no killing today. Strike your sails and await my vessel, and we will spare all your lives.’

  Pazel had a great urge to shout at her: No you won’t! But Thasha squeezed his arm, and almost imperceptibly shook her head. Pazel shuddered at the recklessness of what he’d nearly done. For what if Macadra didn’t know that Ramachni could hear her thoughts? Why give away an advantage like that?

  ‘Yes,’ said Ramachni, ‘you must break off the attack, and run. There is power here to destroy you. Very soon it will reveal itself, and strike.’

  Macadra sneered. ‘With the Nilstone? I think not. Across the Ruling Sea you carried it. Through the wilds of Efaroc, the hell of the Infernal Forest, the snows of Urakán. And never in all that time did the Nilstone serve you. Even Arunis failed to wield it, save in his last suicidal hour. Why keep it, Captain? What a danger and a horror it has been! Give it to me, and I will heal your peo
ple and send you benevolent currents to waft you home.’

  ‘Aye, madam,’ said Fiffengurt, ‘and when killers creep in at my window, I’ll put knives in their hands.’

  ‘A killer has crept in at your window, old fool. Turn your vessel, or watch me destroy it.’

  Pazel risked a glance ahead. What was Fiffengurt doing? They were flying fast towards the Red Storm: could he possibly mean to sail straight in?

  Ramachni looked back over his shoulder. ‘I love an albatross, don’t you, Captain?’

  ‘An albatross?’ Fiffengurt was startled only for a moment. ‘Yes, sir, I do adore ’em. But where’s a rat when you need one?’

  ‘Here I am!’ Felthrup squirmed in a frenzy. Hercól took him from Marila’s arms and raised him to the quarterdeck, where he scrambled to the captain’s feet.

  ‘Felthrup here is my negotiator,’ said Fiffengurt. ‘If you want the Nilstone, talk with him.’

  ‘If you want to live, turn your ship around, and clear the deck of these rodents.’

  ‘Rodent,’ said Felthrup. ‘Singular. My lord Ramachni is a mustelid, and specifically a mink. Now pay attention, sorceress! Without my consent the Stone will remain for ever beyond your reach.’

  Without a glance at Felthrup, Macadra said, ‘No place is beyond my reach.’

  ‘But what an immodest trickster you are! Why, the Storm itself threatens to snatch away your prize. And the seabed? Perhaps you hope you can recover it from such depths, but surely you have some doubt? Otherwise, why didn’t you burn the Promise to ashes, when the Stone was aboard?’

  ‘I saw no reason to kill,’ said Macadra.

  ‘You lie, but what of it? However great your reach, some doors are still closed to you. The door of the Orfuin Club, for example.’

  Macadra froze. Slowly, for the first time, she turned her gaze on Felthrup.

  ‘Yes, unpleasant person!’ he said. ‘I was there, and watching you. I do not fear the River of Shadows. And within this ship are doors to lands you do not know, and will never find. Erithusmé built some; others were made by the Bali Adro shipwrights, and still others were accidents, fissures opened by too much powerful spellcraft in a single place. Burn the Chathrand and you destroy the doors. Will you gamble that you can steal the Nilstone away from us before we hide it in another world? If so, you have less sense than many a rodent I could name.’

  Pazel was shocked. Felthrup! When did you become so fierce?

  But Macadra only laughed again. ‘Rat! You have surprised me. There may be a place for you at court in Bali Adro, if you are wise enough to rethink your allegiances. Quick wit is not something to be wasted—’

  ‘Oh no, no indeed! Consider the parable of the nine golden—’

  ‘—but we both know your bluffis empty. You cannot take the Nilstone through one of those doors. Living flesh is one thing, but death takes its leave from Alifros by one path only, and that is through the River of Shadows. Of course, that is why you are making for Gurishal. That was Erithusmé’s plan from the start.’

  Felthrup pinched his eyes shut, rubbed his paws against his face. He was gasping a little; Pazel feared he had been beaten. Then the rat’s eyes opened wide and he shrilled, louder than ever:

  ‘How gravely, grossly, wantonly you wade in error, sorceress! Have you forgotten your great-uncle, Ikassam the Firelord? He knew a thing or two about journeys by night!’

  ‘He taught me the art, vermin. But how did you learn of him?’

  ‘In a book, in a book, a special book you may not borrow. Ikassam the Firelord, the tamer of beasts. His brother was your grandfather, and said that you should be hanged, and instead you hanged him. His father crossed the Ruling Sea and married the queen of Opalt, and their grandson had the tail of a pig.’

  ‘Turn your ship, Captain,’ said Macadra.

  ‘You may ask what this has to do with giving you the Nilstone,’ Felthrup went on, nearing her and gesticulating with his paws. ‘Everything, everything! For who are you but the product of your history? And who are we but the servants of our own? And this transaction, this epochal surrender you seek – someone must understand it, record it, write it down for the sake of history. And what of Sathek?’

  ‘Sathek?’ shrieked Macadra, staring down at him again.

  ‘Yes, yes – no. Sathek himself is not the point. But his Sceptre! Who can forget? Your Raven Society tried to steal it, just as you did the Nilstone, three times in six centuries, and Arunis makes four, last year on the Isle of Simja. He had a demonic servant too, and sent it to make off with the Sceptre, but instead our wonderful Neda used it to bludgeon the little demon to death – I was under the chair, the chair!’

  Felthrup was squealing and hopping and running circles around her boots. Macadra seemed appalled and transfixed.

  ‘Orfuin’s chair, I was beneath it I say! Not a rat, not a rodent, I was the little wriggly thing called an yddek, Arunis called me a masterpiece of ugliness, Orfuin invited you to gingerbread and you ignored him, you went on scheming, but you schemed in bad faith, bad faith, bringing two servants with you instead of coming alone, now again you make promises, how can we ignore such evidence, Macadra, some of us have a sense of history and this, this is a HISTORY OF DUPLICITOUS INTRIGUE—’

  Macadra wrenched her eyes away from Felthrup. Pazel did the same, and only then did he realise that five hundred sailors had quietly set their hands to the ropes. Pitfire, thought Pazel, the wind—

  ‘HEAVE BOYS IT’S NOW OR NEVER!’ screamed Fiffengurt.

  The wind was turning, swinging round to blow from the east, and gaining strength by the second. Roaring in unison, the men hurled themselves at the bracelines, scrabbling for purchase on the heaving deck. The augrongs heaved alongside the humans, bellowing like bulls. The masts groaned; the huge squaresails turned; Fiffengurt and Elkstem all but leaped upon the wheel.

  The Great Ship came violently about, rolling deep on her starboard quarter. ‘That’s what I like!’ cried Fiffengurt with a cockeyed grin. Men aloft swung like marionettes; those on deck seized the nearest fixed objects and held fast. Pazel snatched up Felthrup while Ramachni sheltered between Thasha’s feet. Only Macadra did not sway: her feet touched the boards so lightly she almost seemed to float like a tethered balloon.

  The ship made her turn, levelled out, and began to fly downwind. ‘Shore up those stays, Fegin!’ roared the captain. ‘We’re in a ripper and we mean to ride ’er like one!’

  Suddenly Macadra charged at Fiffengurt, hands raised before her like talons. But Ramachni was faster. He leaped from the deck straight at her. Just before his claws reached her, however, she vanished without a trace. Ramachni twisted in mid-air and landed on his feet.

  ‘Ha! I expected that. Macadra was never truly here: we were addressing a phantom. But her mind certainly was here – and what a fine job you did of keeping it occupied, Felthrup my lad. You need no weapon but words.’

  ‘Another minute and I should have been forced to improvise,’ said Felthrup.

  ‘But where did this mad wind come from?’ cried Pazel.

  ‘Ah, Pathkendle, you were distracted too!’ said Fiffengurt, laughing aloud. ‘We saw, didn’t we Ramachni? Two albatrosses. Two lovely birds moving like avenging angels, but hardly flapping their wings. Coasting, that is, due west along the edge of the storm. If we’re lucky, and I think we are, then we’ll find this wind’s gushing right through the gap ahead, like a breeze through a window.’

  The ship was now racing west, and when the log was tossed the midshipman cried out their speed: eighteen knots.

  ‘Eighteen’s grand, but we’ll see twenty-eight when Fegin’s done, boys. There’s still two reefs to let out.’

  ‘The Death’s Head will catch the wind too, soon enough,’ said Kirishgán.

  ‘But she won’t catch us. Not before we reach that gap.’

  A shout went, up; a hand pointed forward. There! Pazel saw it, twelve or thirteen miles out: a ragged, roiling edge to the scarlet light.

  ‘
What if she follows us through the gap?’ asked Elkstem.

  After a moment’s pause, Thasha said, ‘She won’t.’

  She descended the quarterdeck ladder, and Pazel followed. Most of their friends were still gathered below. ‘Warn the crew,’ Thasha told them. ‘Tell everyone to brace for a shock. I’m going to put an end to this.’

  ‘Stay with her, Pathkendle,’ said Hercól.

  The next moment a shock did come, although Thasha had nothing to do with it.

  ‘FIRE! FIRE! ENEMY ORDNANCE!’

  Everyone groped for cover. Pazel glanced at the Death’s Head and found it wreathed in smoke. Then the sound reached them: clustered explosions, ten or twelve strong.

  ‘Hold fast to your stations!’ roared Fiffengurt, swinging his telescope skyward. ‘You can’t run, lads, you can only keep the blessed ship running! Think what Captain Rose would say if—’

  He choked on the words. A look of disbelief washed over him. ‘Aloft there, lookout! Those are no fireballs! What in the Pits are they throwing?’

  ‘SWEET TEARS OF RIN, CAPTAIN! I CAN’T TELL YOU, BUT THEY’RE ALMOST—’

  ‘TAKE COVER! TAKE COVER!’

  Something slammed into Pazel, lifting him right off his feet. It was Hercól. He had tackled Pazel and Thasha both, knocking them flat upon the deck. From above came a scream like cannon-fire – but not quite like cannon-fire. Pazel twisted his head around and looked up. Through the netting he saw a dozen black, undulating shapes fly over the Chathrand, scattershot. Then a roar went up from the topmen. A shadow fell. Close at hand something began to sizzle, and then Hercól gave an enormous lurch and rolled with Pazel and Thasha clutched tight in his arms.

  They came to rest in a dogpile with Neeps and Neda and half a dozen sailors. Pazel looked back where they had lain. A huge, viscous black glob hung suspended in the battle-nets, eight feet above the deck. It smoked and stank of burning tar. Large droplets oozed and separated and fell bubbling upon the deck.

  More cries from aloft. Pazel looked and saw that one of the projectiles had struck the main topsail and splattered like an enormous black egg.