“Neskat,” he said to himself through clenched teeth.
Targ turned. Griffiths was standing near him, gripping the rail just as he was doing. The Earth barbarian’s face was filled with wonder at the sight of the ancient ruin wrenching itself free of the ground where it had lain for over three thousand years. Wonder and something else, Targ realized.
The Vestis Prime reached over suddenly, grabbing Griffiths by the front of his blousy tunic and dragging his face within a handsbreadth of his own. “What has she planned, barbarian?” he screamed. “What is she going to do?”
Griffiths stared back at him, a look of incomprehension mixed with resignation.
“You won’t get away with this,” he raged, shaking Griffiths with both hands. “I’ve waited too long—suffered too long to be stopped by the likes of …”
The Venture Revenge suddenly heeled over in the waters of the bay. The concussion launched by the Settlement Ship had reached them, pushing the hull and rigging over into a thirty-degree list. Every object that was not secure—lines, tools, cannon, and crew—slid suddenly across the slanting deck toward the waters now lapping at the gunwales. Griffiths’s feet slid out from under him.
Targ locked his left arm around the railing and wrapped his free arm around Griffiths’s chest. The strength of his hold nearly pressed the air out of the Earth-man’s lungs.
“No, Earther,” Targ bellowed. “You are the key—and you are mine. I’ll not have you damaged before I gain my due.”
The Venture Revenge began righting herself slowly as the sound abated. Targ looked back again to see the Settlement Ship rising on a brilliant blue column of power.
Suddenly a new sight presented itself. The ships of the Tsultak fleet, enraged at their truce having been so flagrantly shattered, began rising into the air in pursuit. A dozen. A hundred. A thousand ships rose as one toward the accelerating form of the gigantic ancient ruin.
“You wanted a diversion,” Griffiths croaked.
Targ glanced once at the human and then released him. The roar of the Settlement Ship and its pursuers was rapidly diminishing.
“Indeed I did,” Targ snarled. “Captain Flynn! Get this ship aloft now!”
39
Deadly Pursuits
Even before the gyrating ship settled back in the waters of the bay, the spacers of the pirate crew scurried about the deck, rushing in a frantic panic to reach their stations. Cries, curses, and commands spat across the deck, colored by the accents of a dozen different worlds. The ancient wooden hull of the Aendorian ship shuddered under the uneven power of the rudely awakened ship’s drives. Above the ominously creaking deck, the spacers cast their spells, weaving the drive sails into an existence that would function in the lost worlds of the Bonefield Narrows.
The chaos raged about Jeremy Griffiths, breaking against his tranquility. Targ had dragged him to the drive-tree mast of the ship, released him, and with a single gesture indicated that under no circumstances was Jeremy to move from that spot. That was fine with Griffiths. He leaned back against the mast and folded his arms. What difference does it make, he thought to himself sourly. What difference does any of this make?
He glanced behind him around the mast. There stood Evon Flynn, looking as dashing as ever as he tried to bring some order to his crew. “Well,” Griffiths said, sighing to himself. “If she abandoned me, she abandoned you as well, Flynn. Welcome to the club. I wonder how big a club it is?”
He looked up into the star-filled opal sky overhead. The massive Settlement Ship was now a blue flame streaking across the brilliant background. Hundreds of dark specks darted behind it in pursuit.
“Goodbye, Merinda,” he said to himself amid the din around him. “Goodbye Lewis, Tobler, and Ellerby. You’ve abandoned me once again. It’s working well, friends. The entire Tsultak fleet is on your trail. You’ve drawn them away from me—just as you said you would. Now it’s up to me to be the savior of uncounted worlds across the galaxy.”
He looked down suddenly, tears welling up in his eyes. “Only I don’t want to be the savior of uncounted worlds. I can’t do this alone. Damn it, Merinda, why didn’t you come?”
The rumbling under his feet smoothed out suddenly. The deck lurched once and the ship vaulted skyward. Griffiths was forced to grab one of the lanyards to keep on his feet in the sudden acceleration. He grimaced. Once more he was racing into the teeth of adventure, and he knew their bite was getting too close for comfort. He was in the hands of more than one cutthroat and was pretty sure that any of them would kill him to spite the others.
A massive hand gathered his tunic at the back of his neck and shook him from his reverie. Griffiths struggled to keep his feet under him as he was dragged backward across the deck. His captor, however, had other plans. With a sudden tug from behind, Griffiths fell backward painfully to the deck.
“Where is it, damn you!” croaked the hoarse voice, choked with emotion.
Griffiths moved slowly. “Where is what, Targ of Gandri?”
“The map,” Flynn chimed in. Griffiths noticed that his face was fixed with a look that seemed to be both outraged and fearful at the same time. His mouth twisted into a frightful rendition of a friendly smile. “Where’s the map, Jeremy, old shipmate?”
“Is that all?” Griffiths rolled his eyes. He reached inside the breast of his long coat. “I even finished it for you. You know, you people really do need to lighten up a little. You could have just asked me and …”
Griffiths’s eyes went wide.
“Avast below,” came a cry from the rigging far above. “There’s a Tsultak task force closing on us!”
“Where away?” Flynn called upward through cupped hands.
“Five points off the trailing beam starboard and closing, sir!” the distant voice returned.
“Well?” Targ said, his fists balled on his hips as he glared at the Earth-man.
Griffiths reached frantically about his long coat, jamming his hands into its various pockets. “Well, I … I had it right … I had it right here … somewhere!”
“You lost the map?” Flynn’s words were pressed out through clenched teeth.
“No! I’m sure I’ve got it here!” Griffiths replied with an edge of panic in his voice.
“We’ve no time for this.” Flynn reached down to his wide belt and pulled loose a massive blaster. In a single smooth move, he pressed the weapon to Griffiths’s forehead. “Those Tsultak are going to bring us within range of their guns in about three minutes, Griffiths. When they do, we’ll all be blown to the Seven Hells of Mingasel, but I am perfectly willing to send you ahead of us right now!”
“Tsultak closing fast, Captain.” Shindak spoke smoothly from his post next to the helm. Griffiths imagined there was some satisfaction in the elf’s voice at his master’s apparent dilemma.
“Understood! Gun crews to their stations. Run them up, Mr. Shindak,” Flynn called out, his eyes never leaving Griffiths’s for a moment. Sweat had broken out on the pirate captain’s brow. His next words were quiet. “Where is the map, Griffiths?”
Griffiths stared back at him.
Flynn cocked the mechanism with his thumb.
“One last time, old shipmate,” Flynn said, his words as cold as space. “Where is the map?”
Slowly, Griffiths reached up, curling the fingers of his hand until they pointed directly at his own head.
“You idiot,” Griffiths sneered. “I am the map.”
Flynn looked as though someone had just slapped him.
“Gonna shoot me now, you son-of-a-bitch?”
Flynn jerked the weapon back away from Griffiths’s face.
Griffiths stood up slowly, facing the two men before him as though for the first time on even terms. “I’m going to use small words so you two can understand this. You want to find this precious Nightsword—well, that’s fine with me. I’m the only one who knows how to get there. It’s not just finding where to enter the Maelstrom Wall either. The passage beyond is a treacherous
one. You’ll never make it without me—in or out. Understand?”
Targ shook with rage. “I will not be dictated to by …”
“You will be dictated to and you’ll take it, Targ,” Griffiths cut off Targ’s words. “I’ll take you to your precious treasure and you’ll keep me alive—both of you. Do we have a deal?”
Flynn spoke at once. “Deal done! Give me a course, Griffiths—we haven’t much time!”
Griffiths turned to the tall, white-haired mage. “E’toris Prime?”
Targ hesitated.
A distant shout fell from the rigging. “Cannon fire aft, Captain.”
Flynn turned to Targ. “We haven’t any more time!”
Targ looked away from Griffiths’s eyes. “Yes, we have a deal.”
Griffiths turned to the elf standing by the helm, ignoring Flynn entirely. “Master Shindak, mark that point twelve degrees to starboard and down twenty-three. Come about sharply!”
“Aye-aye, sir,” Shindak returned with a sly smile, then turned to address the helmsman. “Master Korgan, come about starboard twelve, twenty-three down. Stand by the rigging! Sharply now!”
Griffiths turned back to the captain. “Flynn, we’re going to need a lot more speed out of this ship or we’ll never penetrate the first quantum front.”
“We could set the royals,” Flynn replied. As he saw the blank look on Griffiths’s face, he continued to explain. “They’re yardarm extensions. It’s an incredible strain on the mast, but if we can generate a good following force …”
“We’ll never make it otherwise,” Griffiths replied. “Shindak! Set the royals.”
“Captain,” Shindak said quickly. Griffiths was suddenly not sure whom the elf was addressing. “There shall be no time for the royals. Our pursuers are upon us.”
“Stand by the guns,” Flynn yelled. He ran at once to the gunwale and peered over the side of the ship. Griffiths dashed after him, gripped the wooden railing, and stuck his head over the side.
“There must be a dozen ships back there,” Griffiths muttered more to himself than to Flynn.
“Yes,” the pirate answered. “They’re gaining quickly. You’ll undoubtedly be happy to note that the secret course you just gave us will most likely die with us right here and now.”
The massive Tsultak dragon ships danced their bobbing and weaving course far below them. The hulls were thorny and horned, black and menacing even from this distance. Shindak and the helmsman continued to thread the Venture Revenge through the myriad miniature planets that filled the region, but each of their moves was matched smoothly by the pursuing Tsultak. As they watched, their own hull thundered past a minor planet, seeming to graze the very tops of its mountains. The ship twisted and dove again between two small worlds. Griffiths held his breath and wondered if any ship could navigate such a thin passage at these speeds. Suddenly five of the Tsultak pursuers emerged from the gap, the shine of their black hulls evident. Griffiths could see the dragons moving about on the exterior decking, their claws digging into the wooden planking as they prepared themselves to breathe death as they passed the pirate ship.
Flynn pulled himself from the railing. “Shindak! We need those royals!”
“Captain,” Shindak rejoined, “if we deploy those now we shall smash her against a planet. We’ll never turn her at those speeds!”
“Hard to port!” Flynn yelled, as he gazed up the mast. “Steer for the nebula. When we’re fully in, come smartly to starboard.”
“Aye-aye, Captain,” Shindak replied, then turned his pinched face upward as he called. “Aloft! Set the deep weather shunts! Move lively now!”
Griffiths continued to stare down the hull. The massive black ships drifted behind them, so close now that he could see their closing motion. He turned quickly back to call across the deck. “They’re gaining on us, Flynn! It’s too late for …”
Griffiths glanced up and was stopped short in his speech. There wasn’t even time for him to swear.
A wall of cloud was rushing down on them with incredible speed. Griffiths had the fleeting impression of being Chicken Little and actually watching the sky falling. It looked as though the clouds were dropping toward them like a mountain from above. Griffiths instinctively brought his hands up to protect himself.
The terrible crash did not follow. When he dared look again, the ship sailed blindly in the center of a glowing sphere of light. It’s like sailing in the center of a Ping-Pong ball, Griffiths thought. It would have been peaceful and serene if Flynn and his crew were not rushing madly about the deck and rigging.
“Hold your course for three minutes, Shindak,” Flynn said urgently, “then push this old girl over sixty degrees down by the mast. Hold that course for three minutes and then come to port ninety. See to it that those royals get set at once. We’ll be coming out of this drift in about six minutes. If we’ve shaken them, we’ll have a straight run on Griffiths’s course into the Wall. If we haven’t shaken them …”
“If we haven’t shaken them,” Targ intoned grimly, “then all of this has been for nothing.”
“We’ll shake them,” Flynn affirmed with perhaps a bit too much certainty, as though he were convincing himself. “In any event, the gun crews are ready in case there’s any additional problem between this drift and the Wall itself. However,” he said, turning back toward Griffiths, “I seem to recall there being more to running the Wall than simply finding the right spot in the quantum front, eh, old mate?”
Griffiths walked across the deck and casually climbed the ladder to the command platform in the center. “That’s right, Flynn. On the other side of the wall there is a vortex—a confluence of realities known on the map as Shauna-kir’s Well. It’s a whirlpool of space, time, and probability that drains down into the galactic core. The passage through it was marked—and trapped, I might add—eons ago during the Lost Empire.”
“Let me guess,” Flynn said, drolly. “You’re the only one who can read the signs.”
“You’re learning.” Griffiths smiled easily back. “I’m the only one who can read the signs.”
Flynn snorted.
“Hey, it’s up to you,” came Griffiths’s tired reply. “Once you fall into the vortex there’s no stopping. If you miss one of those markers, however, the ship will drift into the Wall of the Maelstrom, near the core itself, and you can be sure that the differences between the tides of one reality and the next will tear this ship apart in very short order.”
“Captain.” Shindak spoke quietly to Flynn. “The nebula is thinning forward.”
“Are the royals ready?” he grumbled back.
“Aye-aye, Captain.”
“Well, Griffiths,” Flynn rumbled. “It looks as though we’re going to need you a little longer after all.”
“We’ve cleared the nebula, Captain,” Shindak called from his post next to the helm. “The royals are holding. Helm is sluggish but we’re making smart time.”
“Very well, Master Shindak. Set your course for …”
“Avast, below!” cried the watch from the masts above. “Dragon ship fleet closing hard! Five points to starboard off the mast! I make twelve ships!”
“NO!” Flynn shouted. “Not now! Not so close!”
Another voice from above called out. “Dragon ship fleet, fifteen degrees to port! Closing! Making twenty ships, sir!”
Suddenly multiple shouts erupted from the crew both aloft and on the deck. Cries of other fleets, other ships, from all quarters and points.
“Captain,” Shindak said calmly amid the confused shouting, which grew more and more in its tenor and tempo by the moment. “The Tsultak fleet is upon us. If we surrender the ship at once …”
“No, Captain,” Targ said at once, stepping forward. “You will not surrender the ship … not this close. Not when we have come so far and risked so much.”
“It’s over, Targ,” Flynn said under his breath. “I cannot fight these odds.”
“You can if the stakes are high enough,” Targ
said, taking a step closer to the man.
“No price is worth my life.” Flynn held his ground.
“You value your life too much, Evon. I’ll double your price … I’ll triple it … whatever we agreed to,” Targ said, stepping closer again until he was so close to the captain that his breath broke against the man’s face. “I’ll pay whatever you want … grant you whatever you desire.”
Flynn looked as though he was about to object once more.
“I can even bring you peace,” Targ said smoothly. “That peace that you have run in search of all your life. You run and run, Evon, and it never brings you rest—never brings you comfort to your wounded soul. I can end your torment, Flynn. I can give you a place where you don’t have to run any longer.”
Flynn blinked. “Run … I’ve been running … so long …”
“Prime the guns!” Shindak shouted. His voice sounded far away to Griffiths, caught up in the intensity of the drama between the two men standing before him.
Flynn shook once and his face hardened with his resolve. “And running is something I know well! Master Shindak! Deploy the royals! NOW!”
“Deploy the royals!” Shindak shouted aloft. Griffiths could feel the deck press up against his feet and the ship took on new speed.
“We run, boys!” Flynn shouted. “Run for the treasure! Run for the glory! Griffiths, quickly! Where is your precious passage?”
Griffiths looked up the mast. It was as though he had seen these formations before, so clear were the recollections and memories planted in his mind by the Mantle of Kendis-dai. “Five points to port … fifteen degrees down by the mast!”
The ship lurched to the new course. The deck swayed beneath their feet, their speed dangerously high. The mast and rigging creaked ominously under the load.
“Hold her steady!” Flynn shouted. “Shindak! How long to the Wall?”
“Three minutes by my reckoning, Captain,” the elf said impartially.
“How long until the dragon ships overtake us?” Griffiths asked quietly.
“Too soon,” the elf returned, as he pointed across the deck.
Nightsword Page 33