by Chris Bunch
The other two considered.
“Just possible,” Nomios said.
“We’ll link the ropes we’ve been using to pull the guns with, and, Labala, is there a strengthening spell you could cast?”
“I could,” Labala said. “But with no guarantees on how long it’ll hold true. Our ropes are damned near as worn as we are, Gareth.”
“I know that,” Gareth agreed. “First, we’ll put the sick and wounded down, the same way the guns will go. Froln, detail ten men for each position and get them headed down.
“Cosyra, would you do the honors of taking charge of that? Take Thom Tehidy as your assistant.”
“Gladly.”
It took the rest of the day to get the stretchers, and the men who were walking wounded, to the bottom of the cliff. Next went half the supplies. Gareth, not liking that his force was split, put musketeers down, to guard against anything coming out of the nearby jungle.
“I want steady officers at each landing,” Gareth said. “Froln, here at the top. Captain Petrich, you’ll be in the worst position, down on the ledge.”
“Thank you,” Petrich, once of the Naijak, said. “I thought you’d forgotten me.”
“Nomios, you can order the lowering from where that tree is, and Knoll, take charge of landing the guns down on that beach, moving them out of the way, and remounting them on their carriages.”
“What about you, Gareth?” N’b’ry said.
“I’ll stay up here and chew on my fingernails,” Gareth said. “Even though I’ve got my best seamen on the cliff.”
Those soldiers who hadn’t gone down the night before were put on the lashed-together ropes for brute muscle.
The rest of the supplies, then the gun carriages, powder, and the rest of the matrosses’ tools, went down. Sailors were stationed at each level, helping the rest of the soldiery to the bottom.
“Clear below,” Gareth bellowed, and the first of the guns, tied in a skein of ropes, slid over the edge, lowered by double ropes.
“Handsomely, you men,” he shouted, and the soldiers, moving slowly, obeying the command, walked the ropes to the edge of the cliff.
The cannon rested on the rocky outcropping. The ropes were released, and men took them down to where the gun waited. Again, the gun went down, but this time there were fewer men to lower it, and twice it almost got away from them.
But it came down safely, and was carried along the ledge, and once more was lowered, then again to the cliff’s bottom.
Gareth, in spite of the cool spray drifting across from the waterfall, was sweating hard.
Nimble topmen scrambled the ropes back to the top, and the second gun went down, again without incident.
Gareth noted Labala standing at cliff’s edge, lips moving in what he hoped was an incantation, feared was a prayer.
On the last lowering, the men were tired. The gun slid over the edge of the cliff a little too fast. Gareth was about to shout for them to hold at the first landing, the outcropping, and rest for a spell before continuing. But he was too late. The soldiers were letting it down too fast, reacted to Froln’s angry shouts and braked too suddenly. The cannon jerked to a halt, and that was enough strain for one rope to let go, then the other.
The gun dropped, and crashed off the outcropping, shattering the arm of a sailor who was bravely trying to stop it, then rolled over the edge. It spun twice in the air, tarnished bronze casting the late-morning sun, and smashed down onto the ledge, crushing Petrich and another corsair, then bouncing, rolling, clanging like a horrible bell, and smashing apart on the rocks at the bottom of the cliff.
No one said anything, no one made any accusations.
The men on top and on the cliff ledges climbed down, and someone said a prayer for Petrich and his fellow.
Then they made up their packs and lifted the two surviving guns onto their carriages and set off into the jungle.
Its familiarity welcomed them, but no one rejoiced.
• • •
There were small animal tracks the pirates had learned to recognize and exploit, and they followed them, keeping close to the river as it grew larger, making crossings of the tributaries when they reached them.
On the third day of march the scouts Gareth had left at the waterfall rejoined the column.
There’d been no sign of the pursuing Linyati, and now there was cheeriness. All they had to do was continue on the leagues, who knew how many: a hundred, two hundred, maybe less, maybe more. Sooner or later, the river would get wide and deep enough for them to build rafts, and then, afloat, in their own world, all would be well, even though fresh water wasn’t nearly as comforting as salt.
They would find or take some ships somewhere along the way, maybe from those damned Slavers with their city at river’s mouth, and then home to Saros.
Men started making jokes, thinking maybe they’d live, considered what they’d do with the treasured gold each still carried in his pack.
Then, on the fifth day of march, the scouts reported they were being watched by men armed with muskets.
Twenty-four
By the time Gareth reached the head of the column, the watchers had vanished. Gareth ordered them to march on, but slowly, with flankers out as far as the thick jungle around them permitted. He stayed near the head of the march, along with Labala and Iset.
For the rest of that day, they were watched. But no one shot at them or made any hostile moves, and so Gareth ordered his men to hold their fire.
That night — before it got dark, not wanting to give the watchers out there in the jungle a silhouette to aim at — they posted double sentries, and cooked their rations, now not much more than whatever could be gathered on the march, plus dried meat and various wild fruits and vegetables the cooks had decided were edible.
No one talked much, and everyone kept his weapon at hand. The officers around Gareth were tense, waiting.
“They could always surprise us and be friendly,” Cosyra offered. “Doesn’t it make sense that somebody in these damned jungles has to be?”
“I think,” N’b’ry said cynically, “everyone in Kashi who was a decent sort got devoured a dozen generations ago.” He stood up, stretched. “Well, I guess I’d best get my head down and have a nap before the shooting starts.”
Four men suddenly came out of the brush, somehow having bypassed the sentries. They were unarmed except for belt knives, and held up empty hands. They wore elaborately worked short leather jackets, and knee pants.
Instantly, two dozen muskets were aimed and cocked.
The men remained motionless, and the pirates relaxed — slightly.
One of them walked forward, very slowly.
“I am Riet,” he said in a language Gareth vaguely remembered, pointing to N’b’ry. “I think you are the man who returned me here to my homeland. Do you remember me?”
N’b’ry recovered.
“No …”
“I was afraid not,” Riet said. “But it was your ships … yours and some of these other men, I think, that took me from the chains of the men who called themselves Linyati.”
Froln walked forward.
“Yes,” Riet said. “And you are another.”
“Sunnuvabitch,” a pirate murmured. “Goodwill sometimes does pay off. And I would’ve sold these bastards for a handful of gold.”
“Shut up,” someone hissed.
“Why are you men of ships and deep water here, in our jungles?” Riet said, obviously not understanding Sarosian.
“We sailed from the island you knew us on, against those Slavers,” Gareth said. “We took one of their cities, far west of here, and were waiting to seize their treasure ships.”
“We heard tales of a great battle,” Riet said. “But little more than fireside stories without details.” He looked around. “I would guess you were defeated, and lost your ships.”
“We fled that city, our ships burning behind us,” Gareth admitted, “through the jungles and across the high flatlands, wi
th the Slavers pursuing us.
“When we thought we had lost them, we turned north, determining to follow this river to its mouth, and somehow find ships to return us to our homeland.”
“You would chance the Slaver city of Cimmar, as they call it? You are brave indeed,” Riet said.
“Desperate men can be called brave,” Gareth said.
“Well, you are safe now, at least for as long as you remain with us,” Riet said. “Our scouts reported strangers in the jungle days ago, and I decided to come with them and see if we would have a chance to destroy some more Slavers, arrogant in their gold lust, for chancing travel this deep in enemy lands. From my unfortunate experience with those creatures, my people now think of me as a war leader, although war is a disgusting thought to all of us.
“Now there shall be great rejoicing and feasting, for there are many who remember being slaves, and being hopeless, thinking they would never see their lovely jungles again, and remember your freeing us, asking never a hide in payment, nor any of the gold, gems, or silver we work for amusement that seem to drive the Slavers mad when they see it.”
Froln licked his lips unconsciously, hearing the word “gold.”
“Yes, and we shall do all we can to help you in your journey downriver,” Riet went on. “But first is a time, as I said, to feast and rejoice.”
• • •
The town, a respectable settlement of more than two-hundred score people, sat on a tributary that pooled, then ran into the Mozaffar. The Kashi who lived there, who called themselves the Sa’ib, farmed the fertile land behind the town and raised fish in pools. Hunting was now just a hobby for them, and Gareth got the idea the Sa’ib looked a little down on anyone who hadn’t figured out farming was a far more stable way to live than lurking in bushes for a passing deer or knocking monkeys from trees with slings or bows.
The feast, Riet said, would be in three days, rather than immediately. The next two days would be for rest and recovery.
The pirates were given their own compound, and food and drink were provided. Some of the pirates talked about going out and looking for women, but Gareth noted when night fell the collection of huts fell silent except for exhausted snores.
Gareth sat beside the sleeping Cosyra for what seemed to be half the night, unable to sleep, listening to the night, waiting for hostile sounds. He decided he was too tense to get any rest, but thought he might lie down with his eyes shut.
It was late the next afternoon when he awoke, feeling differently than he had for … for months, he realized, feeling some of the strain slip away.
“Get your dirty body clean,” Cosyra advised. “You’re hours behind the rest of us.”
And so it was.
The pirates’ filthy clothing was piled and burned. New garments were provided like the ones Riet had worn, stylish jackets and pants sewn of various animal skins, lavishly decorated. Even sword belts and pistol slings were worn and cracking, and Riet had tanners making replacements.
Most of the men went to the river to bathe, although there were a few, as always, who boasted of liking the way they smelled. The men came back laughing, for the women of Sa’ib had been eager spectators, and made comments that were easily understandable, although not many of the corsairs had been given a language spell by Labala.
That night, too, ended early, although there were some hardy souls — Tehidy, Froln, others — who sat up drinking the palm beer they’d been given and talking quietly.
The next night, all was abandon.
Gareth had wondered if the Sa’ib were intensely private, for no one except Riet and the men who brought food had disturbed them thus far.
Now he found otherwise.
The compound gates were thrown open, and it seemed everyone in the town swarmed in, eager to meet these white-skinned strangers, each with a small present.
There was a constant flow of food, everything from tidbits to huge roasted fish from the river, seasoned with hot peppers.
There was drink — the palm beer that some liked, wine made from fruit, and even some fruit brandies, for the Sa’ib knew the art of distillery.
And there were other pleasures.
The tough little foremast hand, Kuldja, staggered up to Gareth, tears in his eyes, and swore he’d stay here for the rest of his life, and the hells with being a pirate.
“The women don’t want money, or even a present to lie with me,” he said. “Not like any damned port town I was ever in, not even like Ticao, where everybody has to pay one way or another.”
He hiccuped, saw a rather plain, but smiling, woman wink at him, and stumbled after her.
“Poor bastard,” Cosyra said.
“That’s one of the worst things about being a sailor,” Gareth said. “You come ashore, and only have a few hours.
“We brag about our independence,” he said, a bit melancholic. “But that means no home but a foc’sle bunk, no food but that in a waterfront dive, no love but — ”
“But you don’t know anything about that, remember,” Cosyra said. “You were a virgin before you met me, and now you don’t need anything else.”
Gareth’s momentary sadness vanished. “I could not agree with you more, my Lady Cosyra of the Mount.”
“Damned well better,” she growled, kissed him, and they found their way to the outskirts of the town, and a quiet glade.
At dusk, the real feast began.
Long tables were set up, and a steady stream of courses and drink arrived. It wasn’t possible for the human stomach to hold that much, but some of the pirates tried.
Riet and other Sa’ib made speeches about how glad they were to be able to repay the pirates for what they’d done, and how they wished they could do more. But the Slavers were so evil, so skilled with weapons, no one except great warriors like the corsairs could ever stand against them.
Gareth thought of saying that if someone never tried to fight, they could never win, but that wasn’t for this night. Besides, he had no right to feel superior to people who were constantly in fear of a Linyati raid, who’d seen relatives torn away, not just once as Gareth and others had, but year after year after century. His speech was nothing but praise and thanks for their new friends.
And so the party went on, great fires roaring, driving away the jungle darkness around the town.
Drink poured down gullets in unbelievable quantities, and Gareth, again, was almost sorry he didn’t favor alcohol.
Cosyra sat beside him, sipping a glass of wine.
“So much for piratical abandon,” she said. “Welcome to a life of sobriety, Cosyra, doing what your love does.” She hiccuped, proving sobriety was a matter of degrees this night.
Labala wandered up, and Gareth was a bit surprised to see him quite sober.
“You’re not feeling well,” Cosyra said. “Or is it magicians, as they grow in strength, become more abstem … abstem … they don’t get drunk anymore?”
“Maybe I am getting sick,” Labala said. “Or maybe I just can’t relax, and keep expecting something to happen.”
“Such as?” Gareth asked.
“Such as I don’t know,” Labala said.
“Look,” Cosyra said. “See that woman? She’s smiling at you. Why don’t you go see why she’s smiling.”
Labala forced a smile.
“Thanks. Maybe I will,” and left.
The feast seemed fated to go on until dawn, or until there was nothing left to eat or drink.
Riet had slumped under the table, a happy smile on his face.
Gareth saw two naked women, screaming laughter, drag a pirate into a hut, pulling at his pants, noted Froln very earnestly peeling and tossing fruit to an amazingly big and multicolored bird, and having what must have been a most meaningful conversation.
“Shall we?” he asked, jerking his head toward their hut.
“I think so,” Cosyra said, yawning. “And I think you wore me out this afternoon. I’m ready for sleep, no more.”
Gareth had barely
fallen asleep when the Linyati attacked.
Twenty-five
The shots woke Gareth. He was on his feet, brain not working, but his hands automatically fumbled for a sling of pistols and his sword belt.
He found his breeches, yanked them on as another volley rang and he heard screams of men dying. Cosyra pulled on her breeches and a man — not a man, Gareth realized, seeing the curved helmet, but a Slaver — burst into their hut. Gareth had a pistol out, shot the Linyati in the face, saw others in the flaring torches outside the hut.
A musket cracked and the ball whipped past him, and a torch was hurled into the hut.
“Now!” Gareth shouted, and the two plunged out of the hut as it caught fire. Gareth cut down the Slaver reloading his piece, ducked a thrust from a swordsman and slashed at him. That one went away, and there was another Slaver with a musket aimed at his breast; Cosyra shot him before he could fire.
The compound was like a flame-lit day as pirates staggered awake, still drunk, trying to fight back.
There was a Runner amidst them, a cutlass in each clawed hand. Some pirates saw the monster and charged it, screaming rage. Froln came in from a flank, lunged, and cut the Runner’s leg open.
It shrilled pain, rage, spun on him, knocked Froln’s blade away. The pirate went flat, and the Runner’s slash missed.
Dihr was braced against a hut, and Gareth saw blood runnelling down his leg. But his hold on his musket was very steady. He fired, and the ball took the Runner in the throat. It thrashed about, dying.
Women, screaming, ran out of the huts, and the Slavers showed no mercy, killing them to get at the corsairs.
Gareth heard a howl of rage, and Riet and other Kashi, Cosyra at their head, attacked the knot of Slavers. He lost her in the melee, then she burst out the other side, her blade black with blood in the firelight.
There were soldiers then, heads still muzzled with drink, but forming an unsteady line and attacking.
