“What was that?” the shipwright asked.
“The suppression field,” said Gid. “Who broke the command lock?”
Zan saw a flitting black shape at the edge of the Serapis’ vision. A searing green-white line arced between the two ships. Burning pain stabbed into his side as the hull shook.
Gid rounded on Zan. “What just hit us?”
“We lost eyes on the battle when that field went up,” the shipwright said. “It didn’t stop whatever that was, though.”
“This is bad,” another crewman chimed in. “Something just gouged a chunk out of the port side. There’s no residual heat or stress—almost like that hull section vanished.”
Help me, thought Zan.
Malachi didn’t answer for a long moment. This enemy’s weapons and tactics are outside my experience.
Another line of light slashed across Zan’s vision, leaving a clean-edged cut just beyond the bridge canopy. His face burned with pain.
“That was a warning,” said Gid. “They’d rather we surrender than make them shoot us down.”
“It’s a weaponized translator,” said Th’ix. “Keep away, or they’ll board us!”
The bridge began to fill with green-white light. Zan moved the Serapis by reflex, jerking the huge ether-runner sharply to port. The light faded.
“They’re cutting right through our defenses,” the shipwright said. “Maybe it works both ways.”
“What the hell,” said Gid. “Lower the suppression field, ready weapons, and target the nexus-runner.”
Zan hesitated, waiting for Malachi’s advice. The Steersman’s brooding presence remained, but he never spoke.
“Somebody drop that field!” Gid barked.
Zan complied.
“I’ve got a visual on the target,” one of the gunners said, “but I can’t get a lock.”
Zan caught sight of the nexus-runner, which orbited its much larger foe like a hornet harassing a wolf. No matter how he tried to evade it, the Ashlam easily kept up. Another lance of light stabbed into the Serapis’ stern and scourged Zan’s lower back.
“Target visually and open fire,” said Gid.
In his mind’s eye, Zan saw one of three drum-shaped turrets rise from the dorsal hull. The drum filled the air with bright amber dots as it spun. The Ashlam weaved and rolled, slipping between the intermittent lines of fire.
“Load torpedoes,” said Gid. “Fire energy projectors.”
Annoyance edged the shipwright’s voice. “There aren’t enough hands for every weapon. Thirty percent is the best we can do.”
“I don’t care if you have to throw rocks! Just get them off our back.”
Heavy ordnance and indigo tracers flew from the Serapis. Several shots hit the Irminsul, carving fire-wreathed craters in its trunk.
Gid rushed forward to stand beneath the Wheel. “Try coaxing them into the forward tube’s line of fire.”
Zan watched the Ashlam spin to avoid a blue beam of coherent energy. A green-white nimbus signaled its readiness to return fire. The Serapis’ turret loosed a spray of amber sparks, and the nexus-runner dove sharply in advance of the burning motes.
“I’ve got her!” one of the gunners said. A torpedo sped from the Serapis’ bow, sailed over the nexus-runner, and exploded against the Irminsul.
Acting on a dim memory, Zan’s mind seized the turret from a shipwright’s fumbling hands. He didn’t waste time thinking. He just opened fire. His nimble foe dodged the first volley only to face the choice of dodging the next or colliding with the tree. Three amber flecks punched smoking holes through the nexus-runner’s wing. The Ashlam veered away but in the next instant a torpedo ripped one black blade from its trident-shaped hull. The Night Gen vessel pitched downward in an uncontrolled spin, trailing black smoke.
Zan was so immersed in the Serapis that it took him a moment to realize that someone was pulling his sleeve. He focused on his own body, heard men cheering, and saw Th’ix tugging on his arm.
“Wake up!” said the imp. “The fire souldancer spoke to me. The others are in a clearing below. We need to collect them.”
The gold lady needs me, thought Zan. He couldn’t keep the smile from his face.
42
“I brought a ship.”
Zan’s announcement greeted Astlin when she filed onto the Serapis’ bridge with Cook, Tefler, and Sulaiman. The air souldancer stood beaming atop a lighted circular platform much like the Wheel on her father’s ship.
The walk from the airlift had given Astlin plenty of time to marvel at the shipwrights’ work. Their achievement left her amazed and slightly disturbed. It wasn’t just the ship’s colossal scale, but the sense of returning to a long dead world that haunted her.
“I don’t think Sulaiman had this in mind,” she told Zan, “but thanks.”
Sulaiman looked over the large command center’s rows of weapon stations. “The lot is cast. Nonetheless, strength may serve in place of guile.”
An older man stormed forward and straightening his gold-rimmed glasses before speaking. “We are not going through this again. You need a ship? Spend twenty years rebuilding your own!”
“Come on, Gid,” said Cook. “Would you rather give the Serapis to Shaiel?”
“No.” Gid gestured to the newcomers. “That doesn’t mean I’ll hand her over to these clowns.”
Tefler sank into a navigator’s chair and rested his feet on the console. “We worked our asses off to restore this ship. Not for a god’s lackeys; for us.”
Gid studied Tefler and Cook. “I know you two. I don’t know these other pirates from Ebrim.”
“We don’t have time for this.” Astlin touched the minds of the bridge crew. They clutched their heads but managed to block her thoughts no better than a windowpane blocked light.
Xander groaned—if a bodiless soul could do such a thing—deepening Astlin’s unease.
Gid’s face softened. “That’s quite a story. I wish I didn’t believe it.”
“We don’t want to steal your ship,” Astlin said. “We just need to borrow it. And like it or not, Zan’s your steersman.”
“That is interesting,” said Gid. “No one else could link with it.”
Cook turned to the Wheel. “Do you know why that is, Zan?”
Zan’s face took on a familiar empty expression. Not for the first time, Astlin wondered what went through his mind during such episodes.
Is he listening to voices in his head? She considered checking, but decided it would be hypocritical.
“I don’t know why,” Zan said after a long moment.
“The greycloaks will not idly suffer this loss,” Sulaiman told Gid. “Will you join us against them or surrender to Shaiel?”
“That’s not much of a choice.” Gid looked over his men’s nervous faces and sighed. “Looks like we’re with you. The only question is, where are we going?”
“Any objection to Keth?” asked Cook.
“It’s the closest Cardinal Sphere,” said Astlin, “and Shaiel didn’t promise it to the Night Gen.”
Gid scratched his chin. “I don’t necessarily take their disinterest as a recommendation. But we may as well try Keth. If it doesn’t work out, there’s always Temil.”
Astlin’s footsteps echoed through the Serapis’ steel grey halls alongside those of Sulaiman, Tefler, and Cook. They hadn’t seen another soul since leaving the command deck, and the giant ship’s emptiness made her feel lonely despite the closeness of her friends.
You did well, Xander told her.
“All I did was show the shipwrights we’re on the same side.”
“I know,” said Tefler. “I was there.”
Astlin suppressed her panic at realizing she’d spoken aloud. “I mean it’s good they listened to reason.”
The explanation seemed to satisfy her friends, but Cook’s eyes lingered on her for a moment longer.
“A small victory,” said Sulaiman. “We still must find the smith, and every moment we delay is a boon t
o our foes.”
“The shipwrights just want to take on the rest of the crew and their families,” Astlin said. “Besides, we need more hands to run the ship.”
She and her friends stepped from the ship’s metal corridors to the Irminsul’s living dock. A large crowd stood gathered about fifty yards away atop a wide flight of wooden stairs. Reaching the stairway’s foot revealed that the crowd consisted of frightened civilians herded together like sheep by a dozen greycloaks.
A muscular Lawbringer with black hair and deeply bronzed skin strode to the head of the stairs. “I am Saniyan-Captain Amargos, commander of the Mithgar chapter.”
To Astlin’s knowledge, most greycloaks were bullies fond of throwing their weight around. This man’s proud bearing and intense presence named him something far worse.
“Who are they?” she asked, indicating the people of all ages and both sexes hemmed in by Shaiel’s priests.
The greycloak captain’s face hardened. “It’s discourteous to question someone before introducing yourself.”
Sulaiman set his foot on the first step. “I am Sulaiman Iason. These are Tefler priest of Thera, Cook the ship’s cook, and Astlin Tremore of Keth. Answer her.”
Amargos’ dark eyes fell on Tefler. “Priest of Thera? You esteem your office so lightly?”
“Don’t worry,” Tefler called up to him. “Neither of us will be priests for long.”
“I dislike evasions.” Amargos drew his grey scimitar, and his men followed suit. He waved his blade at the hostages.
“The situation is simple. These folk are kin to the traitors aboard the Serapis. The shipwrights will surrender the vessel on pain of their loved ones’ deaths.”
The Fire roared in Astlin’s soul, but Xander said, Do not test this man. He’s not like the other greycloaks; nor are his men.
Astlin gestured to the hostages. “It’s their ship. You talk about law, but this is just theft.”
Amargos scowled. “The Serapis would be a useless wreck but for the aid of Shaiel’s priests.”
“Who lately sought to destroy the same ship,” Sulaiman said. “I would deem their claim forfeit.”
“I will not debate our case with you. Shaiel claims the vessel by right of his Will.”
Amargos pointed from a greycloak to a boy in the crowd. “Bind that child’s shade to your sword.”
Without hesitation the greycloak pulled the screaming boy from his parents. Several other hostages aided the mother and father’s attempt to rescue their child, but a fence of dark swords held them back.
Astlin felt Xander exert his gift on the grey blade at the child’s throat. His will faltered so she added hers, but increased power came with reduced control. Instead of simply losing his sword, with a wet tearing sound the greycloak lost his arm the shoulder.
The response was immediate. A sickly golden glow fell over the crowd. The hostages crumpled to the ground as their skin discolored and blistered.
Astlin nearly missed the shadows that stretched toward her and her friends from three of the greycloaks’ blades, whispering as they flowed down the stairs like a night-black tide.
Sulaiman leapt in front of Astlin and loosed a burst of white radiance. Amargos gaped as the shadows boiled away like mist.
Astlin used the diversion to invade the greycloaks’ minds. Aiding Xander had drained her more than expected, so she could only confuse them. To her relief the yellow light faded.
Amargos still fought Astlin’s influence. She knew that higher order beings like Hazeroth had a natural resistance to nexism, but she’d never found a mortal will strong enough to resist her.
Get to the ship! she urged the hostages just as her hold on the greycloak captain failed.
“Shaiel’s anointed serve his Will,” Amargos raged. “What sinful pride to think we’ll serve yours!”
He raised his arms and pronounced an invocation in strange, thundering syllables. Somehow, Astlin knew he was speaking Nesshin.
What’s he doing? she asked Xander.
Xander?
His presence stirred in the back of her mind. I am sorry, he said slowly. It’s hard to concentrate.
Astlin rebuked herself. Her use of nexism seemed to drain Xander’s will, and she’d been too reckless with it.
Just rest, she told him.
Cook was leading the hostages toward the Serapis. Tefler and Sulaiman stood at the foot of the stairs and bathed them with prana as they ran by. Their frostbite had vanished by the time Cook ushered them onto the ship.
Astlin realized what Amargos was up to when the other greycloaks slipped her mental bonds.
Astlin looked to Sulaiman, who nodded as if aware of her nexic struggle.
“No innocents remain to shield you,” he told the greycloaks. “Withdraw, and hinder us no more.”
Amargos signaled to his men. Golden auras enveloped each of them.
“Freeing our prisoners—is that your victory? You’ve merely traded a clean exchange for a bloodbath. You can still prevent it by surrendering now.”
A nexic pulse cascaded over Astlin—one far stronger than a nexus-runner’s wake. She’d only felt such power during the Ostrith Guild hall’s collapse.
“Someone just used more nexism than I’ve ever felt before.”
Sulaiman’s jaw clenched. “Thurif has set the smith to work.”
“They’re somewhere above us,” Astlin said. “I think I can track them.”
“Then go,” said Sulaiman. “Wrest the souldancer of Kairos from Thurif before Shaiel does.”
Nine greycloaks marched down the stairs in a staggered line, their blades drawn, while two remained at the top and radiated Void.
“What about them?” asked Astlin.
A flaming blade sprang from Sulaiman’s hand. “We shall deal with these heathen priests.”
Cook strode to Tefler’s side and assumed a fighting stance. “You feeling up to it?”
Tefler’s grin bared his teeth. “Most of my revenge fantasies start like this.”
Astlin exchanged a last look with her friends and broke from the battle.
“After her,” Amargos shouted.
Astlin ran, taking the steps two at a time.
The rapid clatter of booted feet pursued her.
43
Tefler couldn’t help admiring Sulaiman. The priest of Midras had made it halfway up the stairs from the dock, fiery blade flashing, before two Lawbringers at the top had engulfed him in Void. Deprived of his flaming sword, Sulaiman was still holding off Amargos and two other greycloaks with only his dagger.
Wish I’d been more serious about my swordsmanship.
Clutching a scimitar he’d pried from a severed arm, Tefler made a fighting retreat from a similar blade wielded by a much more capable greycloak.
Up above, a flurry of motion that Tefler’s eye barely followed left the third greycloak’s sword in Sulaiman’s grip and its owner bleeding on the ground. But indigo light shone from the grey blade, blistering the hand of its new wielder, who dropped it with a curse. In a few swift strokes Amargos relieved Sulaiman of his dagger and drove him to his knees.
Cook broke from the Lawbringer he’d been fighting at the foot of the stairs and rushed to help Sulaiman. At first he evaded his pursuing foe with a dancer’s nimble ease. But the greycloak who’d fought beside Amargos headed him off. Caught between two blades, Cook surrendered.
Tefler weighed his chances against six Lawbringers. They could all manifest Void, making prana useless. He could do the same, but his former brethren had him at a greater disadvantage with Malefactions than with a sword.
Amargos looked down on Tefler, his bronzed face grave. “Your allies are beaten.”
“Fine,” said Tefler, “Don’t put yourself out. I know the way to the brig.”
Amargos’ smile formed like a crack in a cliff wall. “Prison? For these two perhaps. Apostasy aggravates your crimes.”
He pointed his blade. Three more Lawbringers joined Tefler’s assailant while Amar
gos and the final greycloak guarded Sulaiman and Cook.
Tefler backpedaled, racking his brain for a way out. He saw that he’d soon run out of dock, and a thought occurred to him.
“Zan,” he subvocalized through the sending Worked into his cloak, “bring the ship about on her drifters.”
“Are we taking off?” the air souldancer replied.
“Sort of.”
“But not everyone’s on board.”
“Just do it,”
Tefler’s four executioners still advanced with grim purpose. Men like that were too disciplined to rush forward and cut him down—with any luck.
As he continued his hopeless retreat, Tefler thought of everything that could go wrong. Zan might misunderstand. Gid could veto the order. Even worse, Tefler might get what he asked for, plus a far worse death than the greycloaks had planned for him.
“Your friends abandon you,” Amargos said. “Just as you’ve abandoned Shaiel.”
Tefler glanced over his shoulder and saw the huge ship pivoting its stern toward the dock. He moved to within a few yards of the open blue sky and stopped. So did the greycloaks.
Damn it. Now’s not the time to start questioning orders. Keep coming!
The Lawbringers resumed their advance. Tefler wondered if some of Astlin’s power had rubbed off on him, but willing them to drop their pants produced no results.
It’s good that I can’t really control people’s minds, Tefler thought with an inner smile. I’d make Astlin look as harmless as a flower girl.
His killers were almost upon him when he sent to Zan: “Dump the prana in the fuel line, and purge the exhaust.”
Tefler cloaked himself in Void and squeezed his eyes shut. An agonizing moment passed, but nothing happened. Looking again he saw the greycloaks within arm’s reach, raising their blades. He fell back even closer to the dizzying edge—and the ship’s exhaust vent.
“Purge it, Zan!” Tefler shouted, not caring who hear him.
“I don’t know how.”
The Lawbringers’ eyes widened. They stared at the Serapis; then turned as one to flee.
“Now!” cried Tefler.
Zan mumbled as if talking to someone on the other end. For a moment Tefler thought he heard another voice, smooth and calm, explaining how to dump an ether-runner’s fuel and purging the raw prana as elemental fire.
Souldancer (Soul Cycle Book 2) Page 30