I looked toward the starboard side, toward the other four Chorl ships. Three had pressed the attack, coming in from the side, one nearing the Prize, almost ready to board, the other two running parallel to the Defiant.
The fourth had fallen slightly behind on purpose, had swung around windward, their sails cutting us off.
Stealing our wind.
I spun to port, saw Tristan’s ship and the Booty banking hard to starboard, coming in tight near the Prize and the Chorl ships near the front of the ship to help Heddan. Without warning, a blaze of pure white lightning lashed out from the Reliant, sizzling as it skated across one of the Chorl’s hulls, leaving a trail of charred wood behind. I hadn’t seen it form on the river, hadn’t even felt the force gathering.
Because it had been formed by Brandan. I could see him in the prow of the ship, hands raised, wind tearing at his clothing, his hair. Face shuttered, skin creased in concentration, he ducked his head, narrowed his eyes—
And another bolt seared across the ocean, glaring white on the black waves. But this time it skittered across a raised shield.
Fire exploded, jerking my attention away from Brandan and the Reliant. It washed up and over the rigging of the Defiant, heat pressing down through Marielle and Trielle’s shield. I heard one of them cry out, realized they were holding off at least two Servants on their own. In the backwash of flame, I turned back toward the ships behind us.
And gasped.
We might have lost our wind, but the Spoils of War and the two Chorl ships hadn’t.
And they were right on top of us.
“Keven!” I barked, and even as he spun, the Chorl ship carrying the Servant banked sharply left, pulling away from Catrell’s ship. It skimmed the Defiant’s port side, so close a few of the Chorl threw grapnels across the distance even though they were moving too fast to board, the metal hooks clanking on the deck, gouging the planks, guardsmen and sailors leaping out of their path before they caught the railing, ripping the sturdy wood from the ship. One hook caught in a sailor’s calf, jerking him off his feet and dragging him across the deck screaming before it ripped free.
At the prow of the Chorl ship, the Servant had straightened, blood staining the left arm of her dress black and dripping from her fingers onto the deck. She glared across the distance as her ship slid past. Keven stepped up beside me, raised a crossbow and fired in one smooth motion, the recoil jerking his arm.
The bolt shattered against the Servant’s shield, metal shards spraying outward around her, cutting into the Chorl at her side. The force of the impact thrust her back and I heard a gut-wrenching gasp of pain as she doubled over.
Keven spat a curse.
On the starboard side, Catrell’s ship scraped the paint from the Defiant’s hull, caught between Bullick’s ship and the attacking Chorl on the far side, both ships squeezed between the Defiant and the other two Chorl ships. Amenkor guardsmen on Catrell’s ship lined the railing, hacking at the first tethers thrown from the Chorl ship, Catrell standing calmly next to the panicked pilot, crossbow bolts flying between all of the ships.
And then all three ships were past—two to starboard, one to port—their sails momentarily slack as they slid into the path of the stolen wind, then filling again, the ships lighter, moving faster. The ship carrying the Chorl Servant had already begun to turn, readying for another pass.
Keven locked gazes with me.
“I didn’t want them that close,” I said.
Keven laughed, the sound strained.
“To the large crossbows!” Bullick suddenly bellowed, his voice breaking through the stunned moment. The crew on deck began running below, jumping down the ladders, Keven’s guardsmen remaining above. He barked a command and two of the guardsmen hauled the still screaming sailor with the grapnel-sliced calf down to Isaiah, leaving a trail of slick blood behind. I heard the slap of wood against wood and leaped to the starboard side of the ship. Leaning over the rail, I could see six rectangular hatches being opened in the side of the ship, the doors clattering against the hull as a spiked steel point emerged through the opening. I frowned, recognizing the bolts from my visit to the blacksmith with Brandan.
Crossbows. Giant crossbows.
“The only problem with them,” Keven said at my side, the smaller crossbow he’d used against the Servant still in one hand, “is that the other ship has to be close. You can’t aim them worth shit.”
I glanced up, saw the two Chorl ships bearing down on us from the front, Catrell’s ship and the Chorl ship locked in battle with him blocking the view for a moment as they pulled ahead of us, then shoved myself back from the railing. Marielle and Trielle had held the Chorl Servants’ attack at bay, but they couldn’t do much about the ships themselves.
But perhaps I could. If the other Servants kept the Chorl occupied . . .
As one of the Chorl ships slowed and came abreast of the Defiant, I gathered the river before me into a spear, as before. But this time, my attention wasn’t split between protecting a ship and forming the spear itself.
On the deck, I heard everyone’s breath catch and hold. The tension hovered as the Chorl ships edged nearer. I could see the blue-skinned Chorl warriors as they shouted across the short span of water at us, a few grapnels thrown, but falling short. Marielle and Trielle’s shield shimmered in the air between us, but it wasn’t strong enough to push the ship back. The Chorl Servants on the two ships had halted their attack, the fire they threw threatening their own ship at this distance.
The air shivered with fear, with violence, tasting of blood, of smoke and fire, of sweat and sunlight and the sizzling crack of lightning from ahead. . . .
And then Bullick bellowed, “Release!”
In the bowels of the ship, six triggers were pulled, and six giant crossbows released gathered tension with a shudder, the mechanisms recoiling. Six bolts flew; at the same time, I released the pent-up energy of the river and flung my spear.
Two bolts struck wood and shattered, digging a deep groove in the hull. A third had been angled higher, punching through the railing of the ship, slicing through the Chorl on deck with vicious speed, cutting a path through the warriors like a knife, leaving blood, body parts, and screaming men behind. The three others pierced through the hull with a hollow crunch of wood, strakes snapping and splintering outwards, wood shards flying in a deadly hail.
I’d aimed my spear lower. It shattered the hull as well . . . but below the waterline. Through the river, I felt water pouring into the breach and smiled with grim satisfaction.
Then Keven dragged me back from the edge of the ship. Grapnels were thrown as the wounded ship tried to tether itself to the Defiant. With their strange ululating war cries, the Chorl leaped across the distance, a few grapnels catching, the ships edging closer together, hulls grinding, the Chorl now boiling over the edge into the guardsmen’s swords and suddenly the river was thick with the reek of blood.
“They’re taking on water!” I yelled over the cacophony of the battle.
“That will only make them more desperate,” Keven replied. He and five others had formed a rough circle around me and Avrell, even though we weren’t close to the actual fighting. “What happened to the other ships?”
I glanced ahead and to port. “Two of the Chorl are fighting with Westen and Catrell’s ships, but they’re drawing away. They still have wind. Heddan’s protecting them with a shield, but Brandan’s keeping the remaining Chorl Servant on those ships busy. The third Chorl ship, the one that came from behind that still has a Servant, is circling around. The one that stole our wind is still too distant to worry about.”
“So we’ve only got these two to deal with.”
Fire flared at the prow of the ship, but it came from Heddan. It arced out over the water and struck one of the Chorl ships attacking Westen, flaring up on the deck. Even as the first struck, Heddan sent another to the second sh
ip. Lightning cracked across the air as Brandan pressed the attack.
And then I felt the shield around the Defiant falter. Eyes snapping back to the edge of the ship, I saw the guardsmen’s defense around Trielle crumble, saw her fall back, disappearing in the jumble of men.
“Trielle!” I barked, and darted forward, my dagger drawn without thought. Marielle struggled as Trielle’s portion of the shield released, seized its edges and brought it back up, but she wasn’t strong enough to cover the entire ship—
Fire flared, the Chorl Servants on the two nearest ships seizing the opening. Before I’d taken two steps, flame exploded on the foredeck, another hitting the aft deck, screams of pain erupting on both sides, someone shrieking as they ran for the edge of the ship trailing fire before leaping over into the ocean. Triumphant Chorl spilled through the crumbling line onto the deck of the Defiant, and suddenly we were surrounded on all sides, blades slashing, the rest of the deck lost to sight.
I sank deeper into the river, drew my focus so tight I could see only those around me, Keven, Avrell, and the guardsmen at my back blurs of gray, the Chorl red. So deep I could taste the metal of the blades as they spun. So deep the sounds of the battle were muted, grunts and screams and hisses shoved into a background roar of wind. The White Fire inside me flared higher and I seized on it, used it to direct my hand as I cut with the dagger, all of the forms I’d learned from Erick slipping back into place as if I’d never left the Dredge, all of the tricks Westen had taught me since melding with them, the Fire warning me of threats. My dagger sliced through a Chorl’s shoulder, cut across another’s face, punched through leather armor and into a side, blood slicking my hand. I punched with my free hand, pinched exposed muscle, gouged at eyes. I wrapped the river and the Fire around me, flowed with it as Keven and the guardsmen wielded their swords at my back, protecting Avrell. One of the guardsmen fell, gurgling, his throat cut; another staggered back with a gasp as one of the curved Chorl swords opened a gaping wound in his thigh, but the rest closed the gaps as Avrell dragged the wounded guardsmen into the protective circle. Blood slicked the deck, making the footing slippery—
And then suddenly Keven spat, “Mistress’ tits.”
I spun, crouched low.
And saw Ottul scrambling out of the hatch leading down into the ship. I thought instantly of Gwenn, assuming Ottul had killed her in order to escape, felt hatred well up . . . then choke in my throat as Gwenn appeared next to Ottul.
Ottul stood up, looking odd dressed in Amenkor clothing when her own people were dressed in oranges, reds, greens, and blues all around her. She stared at the Chorl, a strange mixture of hope and fear clear in her eyes, on her face.
Her eyes locked on the figure of the Chorl Servant on the ship tethered to the Defiant.
The two stared at each other for one breath . . . two . . . Ottul’s eyes pleading.
Then the Chorl Servant on the other ship gestured across her chest, the action strangely formal, her eyes narrowing with hatred. Ottul reeled back as if punched.
Raising her hand, the Chorl Servant sent a shimmering, deadly wave of fire at Ottul.
A shield flew up at the last instant, Gwenn stepping between Ottul and the other Servant with a defiant expression twisting her mouth into a scowl.
Ottul hesitated, tears coursing down her face, then reached for Gwenn on the river.
A conduit snapped into place. Not a conduit like the one Eryn and the Servants of Amenkor had devised.
A conduit like the one used by the Ochean.
Gwenn’s shield surged with power. But Ottul seized some of that power and sent a hammer of force toward the Chorl Servant.
It caught the Servant by surprise. Even as her shield crumbled beneath the blow, Ottul sent a dagger of force into the Servant’s heart.
The Chorl Servant dropped dead to the deck.
Resting a hand on Gwenn’s head, Gwenn herself immobile with shock, Ottul scanned the deck. Her eyes caught mine for a moment, and in their shining depths I saw total devastation, complete loss.
Then she looked away, found Marielle, and reached for her with another conduit.
Marielle’s shield exploded with energy, reaching out to encompass the entire ship.
At the same time, the sails above ruffled and snapped, filling with wind.
I shot a glance toward the third Chorl ship, the one that had stolen our wind. “It’s withdrawing!” I shouted.
As the Defiant seized the wind—Bullick shouting orders, his captain’s jacket dripping blood, William at his side—the tethers binding the Defiant to the Chorl ship snapped taut and the wood railings began to groan. The Chorl on the other two ships began to shout, those on the Defiant retreating toward their own ship, Keven and the guardsmen roaring forward, shoving them back. Wood began to splinter, and the Chorl broke, turning and leaping for the safety of their own wounded ship. With a final hideous crack, a chunk of the Defiant’s railing and deck sheered away, plunging down to the ocean, still attached by the tethers to the Chorl ship. The Defiant shuddered as the wind caught fully, leaping forward, the Chorl ship falling behind as the water it had taken on through the hole in its hull dragged it down.
Cheers erupted on the deck of the ship, the last of the Chorl either leaping into the fast-moving water or being cut down by the guardsmen. Ahead, one of the Chorl ships blazed, Heddan’s fire running out of control, and the second Chorl ship had banked away. The last ship—the one that had begun to turn, that carried the Servant I’d wounded—had turned and now fled into the open ocean.
“Should we pursue them?” Bullick asked, chest heaving, breath short. He wiped sweat and blood from his face, sword still drawn.
“No,” I said.
He turned sharply at the sound of my voice, then spun to look in the direction of my gaze.
To where Heddan knelt weeping, Trielle’s body clutched tight to her chest.
Chapter 9
Thirteen bodies lined the deck. Each had been wrapped in cloth, the same cloth used for the hammocks, then sewn shut, lead weights added to the lining so that the bodies would sink. Seven of them had been sailors, their shrouds sewn by their shipmates. Five of them had been guardsmen.
The last a Servant.
I stared down at Trielle’s shroud, resting on a board with one end on the deck, the other tilted up onto the railing as, beside me, Bullick spoke a few words, his voice loud, those gathered on the deck—almost everyone on board—silent. I didn’t hear him, his voice nothing more than a murmur, the words meaningless. And yet every other sound on the ship rang clear, almost brittle in the quiet. The creak of wood. The rush of water past the hull. The thud of a wooden pulley against the mast. The flap of the flag above.
The ship rocked on the ocean swells, and the breeze tossed my hair into my face, but I didn’t move to brush it away.
Gwenn had sewn Trielle’s shroud, silently weeping the entire time. Her stitches were perfect, for her hands had remained steady, even as the tears dripped from her chin and stained the cloth with dampness. Marielle had wanted to help, and Heddan, but in the end they’d left it all to Gwenn, helping Keven, William, and the remaining guardsmen deal with the shrouds for the fallen guardsmen instead, everyone subdued, everyone morose.
I hadn’t realized how the rest of Amenkor looked upon the Servants, hadn’t realized that—since this past winter, since the general population had seen the Servants on a daily basis, working in the kitchens and handing out food—the Servants had become almost as honored and revered as the Mistress herself.
But I could see it in their faces now, could see it in their eyes, in the way they bowed their heads. I’d seen it the day before, when the realization that one of the Servants had fallen had cut the elation of the Chorl retreat short, as smoothly and cleanly as if it had been an ax severing a tether.
Trielle . . .
For a moment, I felt her on the ri
ver, manipulating it, assured and precise. I sensed the mocking quality in her voice as she teased me about William, about Brandan, saw her lift an eyebrow in appreciation as a man walked past on the streets of Amenkor . . . or on the deck of the Defiant.
I heard her laughing.
Then I realized that Bullick had stopped speaking, that he’d leaned toward me slightly.
“Did you wish to say anything?” he said, in a low voice.
I glanced out toward those gathered on the deck, the guardsmen and sailors lined up at the feet of the thirteen shrouded bodies—their shipmates, fellow guardsmen, and friends. Avrell stood beside me. Keven, William, Isaiah, Heddan, and Marielle surrounded me, a wall of support. Gwenn remained below, with Ottul.
All of those on deck watched me, expectant. And beyond them, on the other two ships that had suffered during the attack—the Prize and the Spoils of War—I could feel the crews standing before their own dead, waiting for the signal, for the first body to drop from the Defiant into the ocean, so that they could do the same for those they’d lost.
Normally, I hated speaking in front of a crowd. But not this time.
I drew in a deep breath, slid beneath the river and threw out a net, stretching it toward the other four ships, even Tristan’s, so that all could hear, no matter how softly I spoke.
“I was told once that there is always a price,” I said, my voice rough and cracked. I didn’t care. I sensed the shock from the other ships as they heard me, heard the murmur on the Defiant, the sudden shifting of feet. “I know this. I grew up on the Dredge. But sometimes the price seems too high.” I looked toward the bodies, forced myself to gaze upon all of their shrouds, and then I lifted my chin, jaw tight, eyed all of those on deck, stared into all of their faces, into their tear-swollen eyes or their solemn grief. “These men and women paid that price for the rest of us. They paid to give us all safe passage to Venitte. Remember that when we pull into port. Remember them.”
Bullick stepped forward into the stark silence that followed, cleared his throat awkwardly. “With those words, we commit these bodies to the sea in the name of the Mistress. And for all of Amenkor.”
The Throne of Amenkor Page 96