by Chris Bunch
That led him to plan, once more, his tactics. Should he have his ships waiting, cloaked by magic, in a bight of the bay? Or should he be more subtle and, if there was sufficient warning, have his fleet slip out to sea, and, after the treasure ships sailed into the bay, have them sail back to put the cork in the bottle?
Or was that too complicated, too likely to be spotted?
Better the ships should enter, or at least close to within range of the forts’ great guns. Then, once a few of them had been hit, or, better, once they’d all entered the bay and were trapped, then he could …
Gareth forced his mind away, but sleep was still distant.
He tried thinking of distant things, of Ticao, of Newgrange, of the manor house with Cosyra and the downs sweeping to the sea, the village below. But that didn’t bring sleep either.
Very well, he decided. I’ll put my thoughts far away, across the isthmus, into the unknown seas. Labala had worked a language spell with the white slaves, discovered they came from lands far east, beyond Kashi/Linyati, where there was a vast sea with islands great and small. One of the ex-slaves said he’d seen slaves brought to his land by the Linyati, who spoke a strange language like Gareth’s. Those women and children were highly thought of by his people for their handsome features, intelligence, and sophistication often beyond their masters.
Gareth thought of exploring these distant seas, looking for Sarosians to free. His mind chuckled, and asked if he wasn’t also thinking about the possibilities of loot and gold. He tried to curse himself for having become too much the pirate, then, considering these distant lands were in league with the Linyati, smiled, refusing to accept the sin. But, once again, sleep had eluded him.
He got up for a glass of chilled, limed water from the pitcher on the window table, was pouring, staring idly out to sea, and saw a new phosphorescence in the waters dancing toward the city.
Gareth smiled, remembering a Festival of Lights in Ticao, just after he’d come to the city, and how the watermen had paraded the river, boats alight with torches. Children had launched paper boats, with candles and wishes scribbled on bits of paper, into the torrent in imitation.
Then he jolted fully alert.
The lights in the bay weren’t phosphorescent, but something else.
He grabbed the telescope on the table.
Sailing into the bay were a hundred tiny boats, each with torches flaming fore and aft.
One was sailing close to an anchored ship, and Gareth saw the watch aboard trying to fend it off. But the boat touched the ship, and exploded in a blast of flame.
Fireships, sent by Linyati magic!
Another ship roared into ruin, and then a third.
Somehow the Linyati had discovered Gareth’s trap, used magic to keep from being discovered as they closed, and now were sending in these boats to destroy their enemy.
He swore he’d never do anything other than run the next time Labala dreamt of sharks.
Others in the city had seen the fires and improvised alarms; pots and muskets were sounding as Gareth’s men came alert, stumbling out of their quarters, weapons in hand.
“What … whazzat …” a sleepy Cosyra managed, sitting up.
“Get dressed and arm yourself,” Gareth said, pulling his clothes on, grabbing his weapons belt. “The Slavers have stolen a march on us!” He went to the window, called to the watch below: “Get Dafflemere and Labala to me!”
• • •
The soldiers ashore were assembling near Noorat’s sea gate.
The seamen ran for the boats beached along the strand and pulled for their ships. All too often those had already gouted into flames, bringing near daylight to the bay.
Gareth paced with his officers, trying to decide what to do next.
“I can’t say why,” Dafflemere told him, “but we missed them. I thought I had wards out in all directions … plus my ocean creatures, sufficient for at least two or three days’ warning. But …” his voice trailed off helplessly.
Gareth, trying not to show anger, looked to Labala, who shook his head, having no answers, and looked away.
“So we let them trap us again,” he said grimly. “The question now is how do we get out of it. I count no more than half a dozen of our ships still intact.
“I assume the Linyati wizards used sorcery to prepare, conceal, and then guide those fireboats to their targets.”
“Likely,” Dafflemere said, staring out at the bay. “So somehow they scented us, and no doubt, the treasure fleet is now holed up in some Kashi port, or else bypassed Noorat for Batan or a Linyati port.
“My riches, my estate,” he mourned. “All gone.”
“Screw your estate,” Cosyra said. “The question as I see it is what comes next for us?”
“Hopefully the forts will be strong enough to hold the Slavers outside the bay, maybe even destroy some of them if they try to force a passage,” Gareth said. “Then we’ll have to wait them out, until winter storms drive them off, or until they run out of provisions. That’s completely passive, but I don’t see anything better at the moment.”
“And then,” Knoll N’b’ry said, “the only problem we’ll have is fitting all of us into howsomemany ships are left, and then skulking back to Saros with our heads between our legs to face the king.”
“As long as they’re still connected to our necks, we’ll figure a way to take care of him,” Thom Tehidy said. “Right now, all I care about is trying to get a boat to take me to the Steadfast, which I pray is still afloat. That damned Nomios put out before I could get to him.”
“Aye,” Gareth said. “We can worry about what happens in Saros when … if we reach it.
“Look,” he said suddenly. “Signal lights from the western fort.”
N’b’ry had his eyes shaded reading the flashes.
“Linyati … attacking. Will fire as they close … Shitfire!”
A great flash lit the bay, momentarily blinding Gareth. A huge blastwave swept down from the promontory and across the bay. When the afterflare let him see again, he made out a black, fiery cloud where the western fort had been.
“Godsdammit,” Dafflemere said. “They used some kind of magic to set off the magazine up there … either that, or else they managed to get inside the fort and — ”
Again, all of them ducked reflexively as another explosion rocked them.
“Both forts,” Cosyra said grimly. “Now we’re naked.”
Gareth shouted for the ranking infantry officers.
“We’ll move those little cannon to the waterfront,” he decided. “Bring whatever ships are still afloat back toward the city. The Slavers will have to make a frontal attack on the city, as we had to do, since the land outside won’t permit anything else, and we’ll drive them off then.”
“I’ll start building spells,” Labala said.
“No,” Dafflemere said. “I doubt if your plan will work, Gareth. If they’ve powers enough to see us, and determine how we deployed our forces, don’t you think they’ll have had brains enough to bring enough of their damned soldiers to overwhelm us? I doubt we’ll be able to stand against the numbers they’ll land.
“The only chance is to flee. Maybe take that land passage, those paths through the swamp to solid land, then turn east. Maybe you can lose them in the jungles, and find some Linyati town to steal some ships to get home.”
Gareth gnawed at a lip.
“You’re right.” He thought, had an idea.
He saw a couple of the Kashi ex-slaves in the soldiers’ ranks, called them to him, asked hurried questions in their language, thanked and dismissed them, and turned back to the others.
“All right,” he said. “A better idea. Maybe. No one has any idea what lies east of here, in Kashi, and I’d as soon not face any more Slavers for a time. But some of these men of Kashi know the isthmus, and what lies west. They’ll be our guides.
“We’ll leave Noorat and go west into Kashi, looking for ships that we can buy or steal. The damned Sla
vers won’t follow us there.”
Someone shouted there were boats coming back, and from out of the night, a scatter of ships’ boats came. Some held two or three men, some were packed. All the men were filthy, smoke-blackened, exhausted, defeated.
Gareth saw Nomios being helped out of one boat by men he recognized, and felt his guts clench, knowing the Steadfast was no more.
Froln came out of another boat, with the crew of the Seawrack, and stumbled to Gareth.
“We tried, godsdammit,” he said, wiping tears away with a torn sleeve. His face was seared raw. “Godsdammit, we tried,” he said again. “But their damn’ fire had magic behind it, and you’d sand it out one place, and it’d spring up in another.”
“Never mind,” Gareth said. “You’re alive, and there’s always other ships.”
Froln managed a twisted grin.
“Aye, sir. Thanks.”
“Put signals out,” Gareth ordered. “Take Nomios with you. I want all men off the ships, with whatever gear they can carry for a long march, and the ships’ magazines set with slow matches.”
“Sir.” Froln started away. “Damn, but I hate being beat by those friggin’ monsters!” Then he was gone.
Gareth turned to N’b’ry.
“I want you … and Cosyra … to take charge of the march. Keep west until you can find a town worth taking that’s got ships or seaworthy boats. Or even a shipyard.”
“And where do you plan on being?” Cosyra demanded.
“Someone will have to hold them here long enough for you to make a clean escape,” Gareth said.
“That will be my job,” Dafflemere said. “Mine and my friends.”
“We … they’ll need all the magic they can on the march,” Gareth said. “No.”
“Sorry,” Dafflemere said. “I failed twice now. At least I can succeed at this. I’m staying.”
“I’ll stand with you,” N’b’ry said firmly.
“That’s my task,” Gareth said. “I’m the one they elected captain.”
“Just damned so,” N’b’ry said. “There’s going to be many a league of trouble before anyone sees Saros. Use common sense, Gareth! Where do you think you’ll be of most use? Any fool can stand behind a line of cannon and die nobly. Not that I have any intention of hanging about for the Linyati to have their fun with.”
“He’s right,” Cosyra said. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself and wanting to play martyr.”
Gareth flushed, realized they were telling the truth.
“There,” Tehidy said. “Now we’ve got some sense wrung into you. Now, let’s get ourselves ready to” — and he winced — “hike for a few lifetimes or so, with happy, happy smiles on our faces.”
• • •
It was an hour before dawn. The Linyati ships had made no attempt to enter the bay.
The Slavers’ field pieces had been muscled outside the walls and loaded. Labala had cast a spell on them and given a catchword to N’b’ry so they could be fired all at once on a command with a talisman.
The soldiers and surviving sailors, about three hundred fifty strong, were drawn up and ready to march. Rations and durable clothing had been issued.
Four of the small, wheeled Linyati cannon were in the line of march, their trails with long ropes for men to haul them.
More important for many, the treasure vault had been opened, and the men were told to take anything they wanted that they could carry.
Gareth looked again at that huge golden wheel he’d hoped to give the king for his throne room, found two small, intricately worked statuettes, and stuffed them in the pack he’d made from a pair of breeches.
Then he went to Dafflemere, who was standing to one side, sipping a glass of Axkiller as if waiting for a party to begin back on Freebooter’s Island.
“I don’t envy you, Gareth,” Dafflemere said. “Your way will be hard.”
Gareth forced a smile. “I’m sorry.”
“Why?” Dafflemere said. “My friends are out there” — he waved his hand at the bay — “wanting battle, for the Slavers damage creatures as well as men. They’ve never really had a chance to wreak revenge, you know.
“I count myself proud to stand with them.
“There’s some beings as good — mayhap better — than any man I’ve dealt with, even though they affright the eye.”
Gareth’s eyes were smarting a little, and he nodded farewell, hurried to N’b’ry.
“You remember what Cosyra told me about martyrdom?”
N’b’ry grinned, seemingly unconcerned.
“Tell that to the fastest runner in all Saros; the man, I must remind you, who consistently outran you up hill and down dale. I need no reminder, and I’ll catch up to you spavined sailors inside a day after I fire up these bastards’ bums.
“Now, get you gone, or all this stupid nobility and fine sentiment will end up wasted.”
• • •
It was just dawn, and the Linyati fleet was sailing into the bay.
Gareth ordered the men to a halt. They were on a knoll half a mile beyond Noorat, just high enough above the jungle to see the city and bay.
The Linyati ships were the three-masted great warships that had attacked before, but there were far more than fifteen now.
They sailed in the center of the passage in threes, moving as if chained together.
Gareth counted fifty through his glass, guessed the Slavers had decided to deal with the pirates massively, killing mice with sledges. He wondered if Lord Quindolphin had somehow discovered the expedition’s real destination and alerted the Slavers to play this trap.
But if so, that, too, had to be set aside for the present.
He saw a swirl in the middle of the column and gaped.
Something that might have been a squid, but with three beaked heads, came out of the water. It was twice the size of the ship it was next to.
He saw the smoke of cannonfire as the monster’s tentacles curled over the ship’s rail, had its mast, and overturned it, spilling cannon and men into the bay.
Sharks swirled up — even bigger than basking sharks, but with the tearing savagery of blues, ripping into the swimming, drowning Linyati.
There were other creatures, sea serpents, long eels with plumes and great fanged jaws, monsters like the swimming dragons of mythology. Gareth had a moment to wonder if these brutes were natural beasts, tamed by Dafflemere, or created or brought from other, nightmare worlds, and realized he’d never know the answer.
Now the sounds of battle came: screams of dying Linyati, the shrilling of Runners, and the howl of Dafflemere’s fiends as cannonballs took them and they spouted blood, rolled over, dying, proving they were as mortal as any.
Other beasts, equally fabulous, swarmed at the Linyati, but the Slavers’ magic struck, and they writhed in convulsions. Gareth somehow knew Dafflemere was dying with them, a brave man, among the bravest, whether the Linyati had stolen his soul or not, whether he was a ghost or demon.
A wave of smoke appeared along the shore, and then the Shockwave of N’b’ry’s broadside rolled toward them, the treetops waving as if tossed by a hurricane.
Gareth saw ships hit, swaying out of line and crashing aground as the last of Dafflemere’s “friends” savaged the Slavers.
“Come on,” he ordered. “Let’s make sure their dying gave us the time we need.”
And they began the long march toward home.
Twenty
The column marched appallingly slowly. The sailors weren’t used to marching, weren’t used to soldiering, weren’t used to jungles, and weren’t used to obeying growled orders from sweating sergeants.
The mercenaries, never a civil lot at best to seamen, who in turn ragged them unmercifully aboard ship, were snarling beasts before the company had gone more than two leagues.
Slow though they were traveling, at least, thought Gareth, they were moving, and away from the coast.
He wanted to keep the men as close to the ocean as possible on thei
r march east. When they were close to Batan, he’d chance sending scouts to see if the city was alerted, which he assumed it would be. They’d then have to continue on to the next settlement, Kashi or Linyati, to find ships or, in the worst case, seize and hold a town long enough to build them.
He tried to keep his mind on the future, on what they should do, to keep himself from mourning poor Knoll N’b’ry.
Cosyra was marching close behind. She forced a smile, and said, “Why didn’t you tell me about this part of pirating?”
Gareth tried to think of something flip, saw Tehidy, tears having cut runnels down his smoke-blackened cheeks, and said nothing.
At dusk, Gareth had the column make camp along the narrow animal trail they were following, then summoned all of the infantry officers, all ships’ officers, Dihr, and any of the men of Kashi.
“Things have changed, as you see,” he began.
Some of them managed a bit of laughter.
“You soldiers, now we’re in your hands, and will have to learn to fight by your rules,” he said. “I want you to divide your men into small fighting units, which would be …”
“The smallest that’s practical for fighting is about twenty,” an elaborately mustachioed giant of a man said. Gareth remembered his name was Iset, and that he was a captain.
“Twenty men,” Gareth repeated. “Then break your men down into ten-man groups, and you’ll have ten of my sailors to train in each group.”
“I don’t think,” Iset said, “we’ll be able to make up a proper contingent. We’ve been hit hard, y’know.”
“Then five men and fifteen sea dogs,” Gareth said.
Iset made a face.
“A problem?” Petrich, once captain of Quindolphin’s Naijak, said.
“Meaning no offense, sir,” Iset said. “But that doesn’t give us much in the way of experienced fighters.”
“Sailors have no trouble fighting,” Gareth said. “Especially not my roughnecks.”
There was a ripple of amusement.
“You’ll have to train them to do the rest,” he went on. “Scouting and knowing how to make attacks and like that. And we’ll scatter officers, mates, and bosuns through the column. They may not know how to march or make a flanking attack, but they know how to order men.”
