Traitor's Moon

by Lynn Flewelling

  Not one to stand on rank, Klia lolled about with the rest of them, sharing tales of the war.

  “I don’t suppose you two would consider joining the Horse Guard?” she asked, giving Seregil and Alec a pointed look as they sat in the shade of the sail with Thero and Braknil. “Men with your talents are in short supply these days. I could use you.”

  “I never expected it to last this long,” Alec said.

  “Something’s changed since the new Overlord took over,” Klia said, shaking her head. “His father kept the treaties.”

  “This one’s been fed on tales of lost glories,” Braknil said around the stem of his pipe.

  “By his uncle Mardus, no doubt,” Seregil agreed. “Still, it was bound to happen.”

  “What makes you say that?” asked Thero.

  He shrugged. “Peace follows war. War follows peace. Necromancy is suppressed, only to grow in secret, until it bursts like a boil. Some things are eternal, like the pattern of the tides.”

  “Then you don’t think a lasting peace can ever be achieved?”

  “It depends on your point of view. This war will end, and maybe there’ll be peace through Klia’s lifetime, perhaps even that of her children, But wizards and Aurënfaie live long enough to see that sooner or later it all starts again—the same old pull and haul of greed, need, power, and pride.”

  “It’s like a great wheel, always turning, or the changes of the moon,” mused Braknil. “No matter what things look like today, change is always coming, for good or ill. When I was a lad, new to the regiment, my old sergeant used to ask us if we’d rather live a short time in peace or a long time in war.”

  “What did you say?” asked Seregil.

  “Well now, as I recall I always wanted more choices than that. Thank the Flame, I think I got ’em. But it’s true what you said, though I often forget it. You and these two young fellows will see more turns of that wheel than any of us. Someday when you look in the mirror and see as much grey in your hair as I’ve got, drink a pint to my dusty bones, won’t you?”

  “I forget sometimes, too,” Klia murmured, and Alec saw her study Seregil’s face, and then his own, an indefinable expression in her eyes that was neither sadness nor envy. “I’ll do well to keep it in mind once we get to Aurënen, won’t I? I understand negotiating with them is something of a challenge.”

  Seregil laughed softly to himself. “Well, their concept of hurrying will certainly be different than ours.”

  Alec was pacing the deck their third afternoon out when a lookout suddenly shouted down, “Plenimaran ship to the southeast, Captain!”

  Seregil was up on the aft castle with Klia and Captain Farren, and Alec hurried up to join them. Everyone was scanning the horizon. Shading his eyes, Alec squinted across the water and found an ominous shape against the late-afternoon glare.

  “I see her,” Captain Farren said. “She’s too far off yet to tell if she’s spotted us.”

  “Is it the Plenimarans?” Thero asked, joining them at the rail.

  “Time to earn your keep,” Klia told him. “Can you keep them from seeing us?”

  Thero thought a moment, then plucked a loose thread from his sleeve and held it up. Alec recognized the trick; he was testing the wind’s direction.

  Satisfied, Thero raised both hands in the direction of the enemy vessel and chanted in a high, faint voice. Drawing a wand of polished crystal from the folds of his coat, he flung it toward the distant ship. Glittering like an icicle, it spun end over end and disappeared below the grey-green waves. Tendrils of mist immediately curled up where it fell.

  Thero snapped his fingers; the wand sprang out of the water and into his hands like a live thing, trailing a thick rope of mist in its wake. Pulled by the wizard’s spell, heavy fog spread with supernatural speed into a thick bank that shielded their vessel from sight.

  “Unless they have a wizard of their own aboard, they’ll think we’re just a bit of weather,” he said, drying the wand with the edge of his cloak.

  “But we can’t see them, either,” said the captain.

  “I can,” Thero replied. “I’ll keep watch.”

  The ruse worked. Within half an hour Thero reported that the Plenimaran ship had disappeared over the horizon. He ended the spell and the fog bank fell behind them like a hank of wool torn from a distaff.

  The sailors on deck let out a cheer, and Klia gave Thero an approving salute that brought a flush to the young wizard’s cheeks.

  “That’s as nice a bit of magic as I’ve ever seen,” Farren called from the stern.

  From across the deck, Alec saw Seregil stroll over to the wizard. He was too far away to hear what passed between them, but Thero was smiling when they parted.

  • • •

  Shouts of landfall woke Alec at dawn the next day.

  “Aurënen already?” he said, scrambling from beneath the blankets. Seregil sat up and rubbed his eyes, then rose to join the crowd already gathered at the port rail. They could just make out a distant line of low islands on the western horizon.

  “Those are the Ea’malies, the ‘Old Turtlebacks,’ ” Seregil said, stifling a yawn.

  Klia eyed the close-lying islands distrustfully. “A likely place for an ambush.”

  “I’ve sent up extra lookouts,” Farren assured her. “We should reach Big Turtle by this afternoon. We’ll put in there for fresh water, then it’s just another day to Gedre.”

  This day seemed longer to Alec than all the rest put together. Bows slung ready over their shoulders, he and Seregil took their turn on watch, scanning the surrounding water. In spite of Klia’s concerns, however, they reached the outlying islands without incident and set a course toward the largest.

  Sitting atop the forecastle with Thero and Seregil, Alec studied the islands for signs of life. But they were arid, little more than domed masses of pale, sun-baked stone scattered over with patches of sparse vegetation.

  “I thought you said Aurënen was green,” said Thero, clearly less than impressed.

  “This isn’t Aurënen,” Seregil explained. “No one claims them, really, except sailors and smugglers. Gedre is dry, too, as you’ll soon see. The winds sweep up from the southwest across the Gathwayd Ocean and drop their rain as they go over the mountains. Across the Asheks the green will hurt your eyes.”

  “Sarikali,” Thero murmured. “What do you remember of it?”

  Seregil leaned his arms on the rail. Though his gaze was on the passing islands, Alec could tell that his friend was seeing another place and time.

  “It’s a strange, beautiful place. I used to hear music there, just coming out of the air. When it was over I couldn’t remember the tunes. Sometimes people hear voices, too.”

  “Ghosts?” asked Alec.

  Seregil shrugged. “We call them Bash’wai, the Ancients. Those who claim to have seen them always describe them as tall, with black hair and eyes, and skin the color of strong tea.”

  “I’ve heard there are dragons there, too,” said Thero.

  “Just fingerlings, mostly, but they’re common as lizards. The larger ones keep to the mountains. A lucky thing, too. They can be dangerous.”

  “Is it true that they’re magical from the start, but that they don’t develop speech and intelligence until they’re quite large?”

  “That’s right, which means you’re more likely to be killed by one the size of a hound than those bigger than houses. Only a few of the fingerlings survive and they move up into the mountains as they grow. If you do happen to meet one of any size, always treat it with respect.”

  “Then there’s the khtir ’bai—” Alec began, but was interrupted by another warning cry from the lookout.

  “Enemy vessels off the port bow!”

  Jumping to their feet, they spotted two sets of striped sails rounding a point of land no more than a mile ahead. Alec’s hands tightened around his bow; the sight of those sails brought back ugly memories.

  “Something tells me they knew we were com
ing,” Seregil muttered.

  “Are they showing the battle flag?” Farren called up to the lookout.

  “No, Captain, but they’ve got fires lit.”

  “Run up the battle standards!”

  Sleek and fast as lion hounds, the great ships cleared the point and wheeled in their direction. Plumes of black smoke trailed in their wakes.

  “Too late for tricks,” said Thero, halfway to the castle ladder already.

  “At least we outnumber them,” said Alec.

  Seregil shook his head. “They’re bigger, faster, and more heavily armed than our ships. And probably crawling with marines.”

  “Marines?” Alec’s mouth set in a hard line. Dodging through the throng of sailors and soldiers scrambling to their posts, he led the way to the port rail and joined the line of archers already positioned.

  Sailors struck the mizzen, slowing the Zyria to allow the other ships to engage the enemy first. As the Wolf sailed past, Alec saw Beka among those hurrying around the deck with weapons and jars of Benshâl Fire. Busy shouting orders, she didn’t see the luck sign he made in her direction.

  The Wolf was the first to attack, striking one of the enemy vessels amidships with canisters of Benshâl Fire. Oily smoke billowed up, but the ship held its course and sent a volley of arrows in return as it swept past to bear down on the Zyria.

  On Alec’s left, Minál shifted nervously. “We’re in for it now.”

  “Archers at the ready!” Klia shouted from the forecastle deck. “Shoot at will!”

  Alec chose a man on the foredeck of the enemy vessel, drew the Black Radly’s bowstring to his ear, and released the first shaft. Not pausing to see if it struck home, he drew one arrow after another and sent them speeding across the water. Beside him, Seregil and the archers of Urgazhi Turma did the same, each setting their own grim rhythm as the great ship closed in on them.

  Enemy shafts were flying around their ears now, thudding into the deck and the wooden shields mounted on the rail. The hissing song of string and shaft was soon joined by the first cries of the wounded.

  As the ship loomed ever closer, Alec spotted what appeared to be the bronze heads of some sort of monster mounted below her forecastle rail. The placement seemed too strategic to be mere decoration, but he couldn’t imagine what they could be.

  He was about to point them out to the others when Seregil let out a startled curse and staggered back, struck in the right shoulder by a blue-fletched Plenimaran arrow.

  “How bad?” Alec demanded, pulling him to shelter against the rail.

  “Not so bad,” Seregil hissed through gritted teeth, yanking the shaft out with surprising ease. The thick leather strap of his quiver and the mail beneath his coat had prevented the head from piercing his shoulder, but the arrow had struck hard enough to drive the metal rings of the mail through the shirt below, leaving a bloody dent in his shoulder mere inches from his throat.

  He handed the enemy shaft to Alec with a wry grimace. “Send this back to its owner for me, will you?”

  Standing up, Alec nocked the shaft and raised his bow to take aim at the vessel looming over them now. Before he could draw, however, the bronze heads on the Plenimaran’s port side suddenly spewed streams of liquid fire. It struck the rigging overhead and fresh screams burst out. A sailor fell to the deck, neck snapped like an oat stalk. Another hung tangled and screaming in the yards, sheathed in flame. Fire crews clambered up with buckets of sand and urine to douse smoking holes in the sails.

  Aboard the Plenimaran ship, marines jeered and waved.

  “What’s that?” cried Alec, ducking down in alarm again.

  “Bilairy’s Balls!” gasped Seregil, grey eyes wide with astonishment. “The Fire. They’ve learned to pump it, the clever bastards!”

  The two ships were nearly parallel now, and Alec felt a jolt go through the deck boards as the Zyria’s aft ballistas launched their loads of canister. One struck the enemy’s mast; another exploded near her far rail, engulfing men in a spreading sheet of flame. Alec quickly looked away, but as the huge ship swept past he saw more men burning in her wake. Taking careful aim, he put three out of their misery before the ship carried him out of range. Taking advantage of the momentary lull in battle, he joined the other archers gathering enemy arrows to refill their quivers.

  “Down, Alec!” Steb yelled, jerking him sideways just in time to avoid a strip of burning canvas. The headsail was in flames and coming to pieces as it burned. Overhead, sailors worked frantically to cut it free before the mast caught fire, while others on deck slapped flames out with wet sacking. The mingled stinks of oil, piss, and burning flesh settled over the vessel in a pall of stinging smoke.

  Coughing, Alec gave the one-eyed soldier a quick nod of thanks. “You know, I believe I’d rather fight on land.”

  “So would I,” Steb agreed.

  Aboard the Wolf, Beka and the ship’s captain, Yala, were having similar misgivings. The first Plenimaran ship had slipped past too easily and was heading for Klia’s vessel. The Courser turned in pursuit, leaving Wolf to block the second man-of-war alone.

  Standing atop the aft castle, they watched as the Plenimaran’s striped sails filled the sky and heard the sharp groan of her forward catapults. A sack of quicklime struck the forward castle, bursting to engulf a knot of riders in a choking grey cloud; a second struck the mainsail, blinding several sailors and archers perched in the yards.

  The screams of the maimed were terrible. Some of the archers positioned in the waist started in their direction, but Beka barked out, “Tell your riders to hold their positions, Sergeant Mercalle. Stand and shoot!”

  “Stand and shoot!” Mercalle yelled, pushing men and women back into place.

  But the Plenimaran ship was still coming at them bow on, presenting a limited target. The Wolf’s ballistas sent jars of fire into her rigging and prow, but she still came on.

  “She’s got a ramming prow!” someone yelled from the shrouds.

  “Hard about!” shouted Captain Yala.

  The helmsmen threw themselves against the tiller, and the ship yawed, sending archers tumbling across the deck.

  The enemy catapults sang again, and spiked iron balls splintered the Wolf’s forward mast and tore a gaping hole in the headsail. The ship shuddered and slowed, her fallen mast dragging over the side.

  The man-of-war swept past, close enough for Beka to see the fierce, grinning faces of the black-clad marines sighting down their arrows. Mercalle’s riders howled out their war cries and returned a hail of arrows, aiming skyward to arch their shafts onto the higher deck. The forward ballista crews launched more fire jars, but these missed their mark.

  As the crew of the Wolf watched in horrified wonder, bronze lion heads mounted under the Plenimaran vessel’s rail vomited streams of liquid fire that streaked the Wolf’s torn sails with flames. From belowdecks came the screams of panicked horses and the cries of the wounded.

  “By the Four!” Beka gasped. “What the hell was that, Captain?”

  Before Yala could answer, a shaft buzzed past Beka’s cheek and struck the woman in the eye. Clutching at it, Yala sank to the deck with an agonized groan.

  “She’s rounding on us, Captain,” a lookout warned. “And she’s running up fresh canvas!”

  “Prepare—” Yala slumped slowly forward, blood flowing down her cheek. “Prepare to repel—”

  Trailing smoke from one smoldering sail, the man-of-war closed on them again with a thick volley of arrows. Pinned down in the shelter of the rail shields, the remaining Skalan defenders shot back as best they could. A dozen or more bodies littered the deck, and Beka’s heart sank as she counted three green tabards among them. Spotting Mercalle and Zir near the aft castle, Beka raced across the deck to them.

  “Yala’s dead. Have you seen the mate?”

  The sergeant jerked a thumb at the forecastle. “That first load of quicklime got him.”

  “They’re fixing to ram!” the remaining lookout shouted down to the
m.

  “To what?” called Beka in alarm.

  Everyone on deck had heard the warning, but there was little that could be done about it now. Marten and Ileah hurried over, supporting Ileah’s brother Orineus between them. The young rider’s tabard was stained dark around the broken arrow shaft in his chest. Beka could tell by his color that he was dying. Kallien brought up the rear.

  The enemy vessel was almost upon them now, aiming straight for the Wolf’s waist. Another burst of fiery liquid shot from the bronze heads as she bore down on the doomed carrack.

  “Sakor’s Eyes, the horses!” gasped Zir, face pale beneath his thick beard.

  “Come with me,” ordered Beka, starting for the main hatch.

  “No time, Captain!” Mercalle warned.

  The last thing Beka remembered before the whole world heaved under her feet was the muffled screams of the horses.

  Searching the deck for Seregil, Alec caught sight of Thero for the first time since the battle began. Standing calmly on the forecastle deck, he raised his hands palms outward at the oncoming enemy vessel. A bright corona of light flashed around him, obscuring him from sight for a moment. Alec was still blinking when a great shout went up from the crew.

  The enemy ship was foundering crazily off course, her fallen sails sagging over her spars and deck. Fires broke out and quickly spread, driving men overboard into the sea. The Courser swooped down to finish her off.

  Alec scaled the forecastle ladder and found Thero sitting on a crate surrounded by grinning sailors.

  “What did you do?” Alec asked, elbowing his way in to him.

  “Turned their ropes to water,” Thero said hoarsely, looking quite pleased with himself. “And relieved them of this.”

  At his feet lay a heavy metal rod nearly six feet in length.

  “Their rudder pin!” Farren exclaimed. “Even with their rigging, they wouldn’t get far without that.”

  But their triumph was short-lived. The Wolf was sinking.

  Clambering down the ladder again, Alec joined Seregil and Klia at the starboard rail. Ahead of them, the Wolf listed in the shadow of the second man-of-war. The Plenimarans were showering the vessel with arrows and liquid fire. The carrack’s sails and masts were in flames, sending a great column of smoke slanting across the water. They could all make out figures falling or leaping into the sea from the tilting deck.