The Hag of Calix

by Rod Fisher

Chapter Nineteen

  SINNIHUN issued a quiet command and his crew rested. While they waited in expectant silence, he squinted into the light mist that blurred the waves of the bay. The Antillian vessel was heeled down on the beach like a crippled bird. Sinnihun could see no sign of a crew. He hawked and spit, then bellowed the Gamollian battle cry. On each side of the long war canoe his men dug in with their paddles, striking up a lusty reaver's chant to the cadence of their dipping blades. Their singing grew louder, more intense, as they shot across the bay. The melody was ignored, developing into a succession of full-throated barks, building in frenzy. Like a pack of wolves, they lusted for the coming chance for battle and booty.

  The seagoing dugout hit the beach with a wracking thud, and the men swarmed out, shouting, creating a roar of sound that would have done credit to a much larger group. They poured onto the beach brandishing swords and cudgels.

  One man stepped out of the trees to engage them. His words were swallowed in the din of their battle cries. He stood there, sword and buckler held ready as they approached, obviously intending to sell his life dearly.

  The Gamollians obliged him. They circled around him, as many as could find a place to swing and hack. He was tough and skillful. They toyed with him, enjoying the one-sided contest, and finally wore him down until he was stumbling with fatigue and slashing blindly. His blade found an unguarded spot, more by luck than design, and he thrust his steel through the ribs of a surprised reaver. The man crumpled to his knees and had a moment to regret his carelessness before he pitched forward, dead.

  That signaled the end of their sport. While the weary defender was distracted from the side, Sinnihun himself moved in and put him away with a blow of his spiked cudgel.

  They left him sprawled in the driftwood. The blood welling from his nose and mouth ran in rivulets along the silvery wood. Sinnihun bellowed orders for the men to return to the canoe, but his command was ignored when a girl came running, from the trees to kneel down beside their dead adversary. She was stunned into immobility by the battered look of the corpse. Sinnihun walked over, grabbed her arm, and hauled her roughly down to the canoe.

  "Search the woods," he pointed with his weapon, "there may be more hidden."

  Several of his men fanned out across the islet, but they soon reappeared with nothing to report. Meanwhile the yacht was plundered and set afire.

  Sinnihun liked his women fat and heavy-breasted. The older he got, the fatter he liked them. He was seventy-one, still tough enough to command a war canoe, and still able to play the stud in bed. He pulled Chessa's face up and looked her over carefully. "You are too skinny," he told her bluntly. Her face was pale from shock and her eyes stared through him, unseeing. He dropped her head and shoved her into the rough bottom of the dugout. "I will give you to Antelo. He might even pay for you."

  His men loaded their dead comrade into the bow of the canoe and lined up alongside to shove off. Sinnihun clambered into place by the steering oar and waved a signal. As the blazing yacht spit smoke and sparks into the air over the beach, they slid the great canoe into the bay and left.

  Gwenay waited until long after the muffled sounds of conflict on the beach had stopped. She had been patient, enduring the irritation of numerous insects crawling through the mound of dead branches and ferns that buried her. The moldering lifeless air hung heavy in her nostrils. A sudden panic jangled her nerves; she felt she was smothering. Indifferent to the noise or consequences, she fought her way out from under the burdening brush and filled her lungs with clean air.

  She listened for a moment. Nothing. The thought hit her! What if the others were dead and she were alone on the islet, blind and helpless?

  "Felic... Chessa...," she called uncertainly. She stumbled forward a few steps and scraped into a tree. "Anyone," she screamed, "is there anyone?" The screech of a gull answered her. Heading downhill, she half-walked, half-crawled, fighting the rough terrain until she felt the sand of the beach.

  The yacht still burned, although the fire had reached the waterline in some places. Gwenay was baffled by the hissing of steam as the rising tide met the flames. Her eyes found an area of gray light as she faced the sound. She moved forward. The light increased and she felt the heat and smelled the smoke from the burning vessel.

  She tripped over driftwood and fell down. Her hands, searching to break her fall, found Felic's body. She jerked away, rattled by the unexpected contact with flesh. Her fingers stuck to each other, coated with the sticky gelatin of his blood. She knelt there for a moment, afraid to move or speak.

  Then she called again, the thin call of someone not expecting an answer! "Chessa...are you here?" She waited. "Felic?" There was a moan, so small it would have gone unheard by a person with sight. "Felic?" she called again--stronger this time. The moan did not repeat. Gingerly, she felt the body before her. She was appalled by the raw flesh and congealing blood that met her touch. She tried to trace the features, but the meaty pulp that met her fingertips caused her to recoil in horror. Flies buzzed up in anger, their feast disturbed. She sat for a moment calming herself. Then she found the sword belt. The familiar series of linked medallions told her that the prone figure was Felic. She carefully lowered his head and shoulders off the driftwood until he was flat on his back on the sand. Pulling her hair aside, she pressed her ear to his chest and listened for a heartbeat.