The Horse Lord

by Peter Morwood

  "You see. What does a line of six chiefs count for now?"

  "It counts. I'd make sure it counts."

  "Don't be foolish, Aldric." She lay back and their fingers slid apart. "Hush now. You and I have said enough. Go to sleep."

  Although she slept almost at once, Aldric stayed propped on one elbow and wide awake for a long time. The creases of a frown smoothed from his face eventually and a thin, wistful smile took its place. Very, very gently he touched her white-blonde hair, letting each silken strand drift across his honourably scarred left hand. "Perhaps you're right," he murmured, drawing the quilt up and across them both. "And perhaps I am. Perhaps…" Curling up close to Kyrin's warm body, he looped one arm tenderly about her waist, then closed his eyes and slept like a child.

  The vessel, En Sohra, was an Elherran gallon, a big, burly ship with galion complicated rigging. Her crew was also Elherran, folk of a trading nation which had so far kept its balance on the tightrope of neutrality, and while they looked askance at Kyrin—disapproving perhaps of her wearing men's clothing—they made no open protest.

  The galion was towed early into deep water and was well under way by mid-morning, bowling along down the Narrow Sea before a stiff north-easterly breeze. Though her cargo of roofing-lead ballasted the ship and made her ride low and steady, Aldric was unsure whether he liked sailing very much. Not that he was sick… just not terribly interested in food.

  The queasiness lasted only for a day or so and once he recovered and learned to cope with the rolling deck, he and Kyrin spent much of their time on the poop, screened from prying eyes by sails and rails and cabin. Dewan, who by his profession noticed things, found the way they were always holding hands rather amusing, in an innocently romantic way—but he remained, for a foreigner, honourably discreet.

  For the first two days of open sea they encountered nothing but several fishing dories and the usual circling gulls; but on the third morning breakfast in the great cabin was interrupted by a yell from the lookout, in tones of such urgency that the meal was abandoned without a second thought. With her sail taut and filled by the wind whistling in over her stern rail, the galion was making excellent speed, but breaking the grey horizon on the port quarter was a sail.

  "What is it?" Dewan demanded when he reached the poopdeck. Somebody passed him a long-glass and he stared through it long and hard, but no matter how much he hoped the image would change his first impression remained the same. The sail was red.

  "Well?" asked Aldric, squinting a little in what promised to be a bright, clear day.

  "Red sail," the Vreijek said shortly. "That means the Imperial Fleet."

  "There's always the possibility it's just a merchant captain who likes the colour red," suggested Kyrin hopefully.

  Dewan favoured her with a withering glance. "Maybe so… but given the price of that red dye, I wouldn't bank on it."

  Within an hour the other vessel was running slightly astern, close enough for them to see an occasional flash from her deck as someone turned a long-glass on the scudding galion. She was a warship; that much was all too clear. What remained obscure was why, no matter what manoeuvres she executed, only her masthead pennants shifted to match the changing wind; both big sails remained square-set and full.

  The Drusalan ship was armoured; sheets of steel covered her upperworks and hull almost to the waterline, and by now even unaided eyes could discern where seven turrets rose from her main deck and her bow. The mainsail was vivid red and displayed the Emperor's silver star-with-streamers, but the black sprit-sail bore a white-outlined four-pointed star: the Grand Warlord's badge. A long ram broke surface now and then, although the ship was no galley; the rakish sides towering above En Sohra were smooth, unbroken by ports or oarlocks. Still the galion retained her lead.

  Then the impossible happened. Under full sail, with no more room on her yards for even a silken kerchief, the warship accelerated. A white bone of foam surged up between the teeth of her ramming gear and in a matter of minutes she scythed past En Sohra in a hiss of broken water. The galion's people could hear a clang of gongs sounding battle-stations and then a voice amplified and distorted by a speaking-trumpet. "This is the Imperial Battleram Aalkhorst!" it blared. "Heave to and prepare to be boarded!"

  Leaning over the galion's waist-rail, Kyrin glanced up at an outburst of sharp words on the quarterdeck above her. Aldric had given orders to En Sohra's master which the sailor seemed reluctant to obey; then the eijo put one hand to his taiken's hilt and the captain hastily did as he was told, addressing a string of Elherran to his helmsman. Kyrin knew only two words: "turn" and "run." Consequently she was one of the few people not taken by surprise when the galion heeled over and away from the battleram. Her clumsy-looking lugsails allowed her to sail closer to the wind than almost any other rig, and by rights the big Imperial ship would now be reduced to sluggish tacking. In theory.

  Aalkhorsfs steersman had not been watching as closely as he should have been, for the warship stayed on course for almost three ship-lengths—in her case a considerable distance—before anything happened. Then she leaned over in a skidding, gunwale-submerged turn which brought her head straight into wind. There her sails should have gone slack and useless—but after a momentary flap they bellied out, ignoring the wind of the world. Then she came boring in at them, faster even than the first incredible dash which had brought her level. For a terrifying instant the spikes of the black star reared high above En Sohra's stern lanterns, and the ram slopped cold brine across the gallon's deck as it lifted on the swell and then came crashing back in a shower of spray.

  Sliding back into place on the starboard beam, Aalk-horst blanketed the merchantman's sails so that they hung limp and her pace faltered. Two of the armoured cupolas on her portside revolved until their shuttered slots faced En Sohra, and then the shutters snapped open. Across the narrow strip of salt water Aldric heard a crackle of orders in the guttural Drusalan speech, just before ar Korentin grabbed his arm and jerked him under cover.

  There was a clatter and the deck where he had stood sprouted catapult bolts and splinters of chewed-up planking.

  A moment later the gallon's master had struck his colours and lowered his useless sails. Part of the battle-ram's armour opened and a small boat was winched down into the sea. Shortly afterwards four soldiers in the red-and-green of Imperial marines clambered up En Sohra's boarding ladder, with their officer following at a more dignified pace.

  He was tall, lean, his eyes startlingly blue in a face tanned by wind and sun. The man took off his rank-barred helmet and cradled it under one arm, passing a hand over his close-cropped scalp as he studied the damage his salvo had inflicted. Then he called for the captain.

  "You disobeyed my direct command," he accused. "Why?"

  "I… that is, we—" the sailor floundered.

  "I ordered it," interrupted Aldric.

  The officer's arrogant stare switched to him and one of the man's eyebrows lifted quizzically. "I am Hautmarin Doern," he rasped. "Who are you?"

  "A… mercenary. Between employers—not that it's your affair," the Alban retorted frostily.

  Doern laughed at him and swept a pointed gaze over the gallon's grimy finery. "Indeed. Not a very successful one, if you have to sail on a tub like this. Why did you run?" He barked the question, hoping to startle an admission from somebody.

  "I made some enemies," Aldric drawled smoothly. "Powerful enemies. Using an Imperial warship isn't beyond them. So I took no chances." He turned his back and kicked at a hatch-cover. "But since you're real I suppose you'll want to search the bloody ship, so get on with it. I'll not stand in your way. There's been enough time wasted already."

  Kyrin was the only person who saw the glance Dewan exchanged with the galion's master at Aldric's words. With a nasty start she realised there was more to En Sohra than either she or the eijo had been told. Much more.

  Doern missed the by-play, which was just as well. He was studying Aldric as if trying to interpret someth
ing from the warrior's expression.

  "So," he muttered. "You seem honest enough." He turned to his men, gestured at the hold and issued orders. All four marines went below and by the noise they made carried out a most thorough search. There was a sudden clatter and the enraged neighing of a war-horse; Aldric grinned wickedly at the burst of Drusalan swearwords which followed. Then a marine half-emerged from the deck gratings and said something which brought Doern across the planks in two noisy strides. When he straightened there was a helmet like his own dangling by its chinstrap from one outstretched hand. "Whose is this?" he demanded in a low, dangerous voice. "Whose?"

  "Mine," said Dewan.

  The hautmarin glowered at him. "There is a full harness down there," he grated. "Our cavalry pattern. Where did you get it?"

  "As standard issue," ar Korentin replied crisply, lapsing into fluent Drusalan, "when I served with the Bodyguard in Drakkesborg." He paused just long enough for his words to sink in, then went for the kill. "Holding eldheisart rank."

  The pine deck boomed as all five Imperial soldiers crashed to attention. "My apologies, lord-commander," muttered Doern. "You should have made yourself known at once."

  Ar Korentin cleared his throat but said nothing, letting them stew for a little by taking a short walk around the deck. The hautmarin and his marines stayed where they were, heels together and eyes straight ahead. Thus they missed the small wink which Dewan directed at Aldric and En Sohra's captain.

  "Hautmarin … Doern, wasn't it?" said the Vreijek at length, not looking round. "I didn't… make myself known to you at all. There was no Imperial armour aboard this vessel. You encountered nothing out of the ordinary." He strode up to the officer and stared at him. "Do I make myself perfectly clear, hautmarin?"

  "Sir!" Doern slammed once through the rhythmic sequence of a full salute and then looked through ar Korentin as if he was not there. "Reembark!" he ordered. "There's no contraband here. Good day to you, shipmaster."

  "One question only, hautmarin" Dewan said quietly. "Doing… what I do, I hear little news from home. How can your ship sail against the wind?"

  Doern glanced sideways. "I shouldn't tell even you, sir, but—call it an exchange of confidences. Grand Warlord Etzel paid a sorcerer to lay enchantment on the Aalkhorst—to charm a witch-wind into the sails. We can go where we please. But—but I don't like it, sir; magic's been proscribed for years and now to make so free with it… Something's wrong."

  "Hautmarin" Dewan cautioned, "I didn't hear you say that. And don't let—" His insincerities broke off as Kyrin shouted, pointing at the sky. She had whiled away a conversation which she could not understand by peering through a long-glass at whatever caught her attention. One such distant speck had seemed to be a gull at first, but closer scrutiny and her own suspicions revealed it to be nothing of the sort. Crossing the quarterdeck in two long strides, Aldric seized the glass and raised it to his eye, then flinched visibly and muttered something savage under his breath. "What the hell is that?" he heard ar Korentin gasp.

  Aldric's mouth was dry and he could taste the acrid bitterness of fear under his tongue. So soon after Esel, he thought, and felt an ill-suppressed shiver crawl along his spine. "I can't give you a name," he answered very softly, "but I think it's looking for…" His voice was drowned by a thin whistling shriek of exhalation as the isghun passed high overhead, and En Sohra's deck blinked dark as vast wings slid across the sun. The spell-beast turned, spiralling on one wingtip with heavy, ominous grace, and came back low and fast.

  It skimmed past the gallon's portside just above the waves, the banshee scream of its breath slapping back from whirling disturbed water in its wake, and for just an instant Aldric met the demon's eyes. The force of that unhuman gaze was like a blow and, horribly, there was recognition in it. Then the isghun was gone, soaring into the hard blue sky white the storm-wind of its passage flailed across both ships.

  Aldric laid one hand to taiken-hilt, sickly aware of how small both he and Widowmaker were beside the monster's bulk. He was conscious too of other things; of how the hand had trembled before he clenched it tight, of how wind-blown hair and clothing stuck to skin already chilled by sweat, of how he felt more alone than ever in his life. And more afraid. Esel had at least been manlike and familiar, no matter what his shape concealed. But this …

  The eijo's last rational thought was one of disbelief that anything so big could move so fast, as the isghun swept around and dived like a falcon on a mouse. Then he flung himself clear of the quarterdeck. A shadow flashed across En Sohra and there was a rending crash right at his heels which made the galion vibrate from stem to stern. Though he landed heavily and barely kept his balance, Aldric was still able to glance up in time to see what might have been his own fate.

  The isghun's tail had whiplashed around the companion-ladder where he had been standing and had wrenched it clean out of the deck without apparent effort. Emitting a deep; disgusted grunt, it let the false catch drop more than three hundred feet in a slow end-over-end tumble until the stairway smashed to matchwood against Aalkh-orsfs armoured stern.

  Aldric could hear the sonorous howl as air pumped through great vents in the creature's wings, driven by rippling contractions of muscle to thrust it forward. Its mode of flight gave his racing mind a clue to what might well prove weakness. If only he was able to—

  It broke off its lazy circuit of the ship and plunged straight towards him, body rearing high so that its tail was free to clutch. But the tail did not even come close. Over eager, perhaps impatient, straining to reach its victim, the isghun slammed into En Sohra's mainmast with an impact that sprang timbers all over the merchant vessel and then slewed across the deck fighting to stay airborne. As its hideous head came lurching closer Aldric yelped, rolling aside and upright. Isileth Widowmaker blurred out of her scabbard.

  Behind the spellbeast sailors lunged with boarding-pikes, only to be hurled aside by its thrashing tail. An arrow ripped through its wing and acid-smelling fluid spurted out of the wound. More missiles drove into its body, penetrating with an ease that betrayed the monster's fragile flesh, if flesh it was. Suction dragged at Al-dric's body as air rushed into the isghun, expanding its body even as he watched; none was released and, guessing what was about to happen, the eijo gripped something solid and held on tightly.

  Muscles contracted, fleshy valves snapped open and what air the demon had drawn in came shrieking out, blasting its body upwards and hurling three men overboard. Aldric, though unsteady on his feet, was not one of them. He slashed Widowmaker deep into the swollen belly passing just above his head.

  A bellow of agony all but deafened him and the isghun lurched uncontrollably sideways as half its body underwent a violent deflation. Then it struggled skywards and Aldric cried out in shock, for the demon's tail had looped around his legs and he went up as well. Somebody shouted incoherently in panic. Himself? The brutal grip was crushing both his knees and as he was jerked upside-down his shoulders crashed first against the deck and then against En Sohra's sterncastle. It was impossible to use the taiken now, because his legs and the isghun's tail were so entangled that to cut one would almost certainly wound the other. Unless… Aldric closed both hands around his longsword's hilt; the loss of a foot was preferable to what Kalarr and Duergar had in store for him.

  The inverted deck jumped up as he abruptly dropped towards it, but his only pain was in the skull he cracked on landing. A length of severed tail uncoiled from his kicking legs, the vinegary stench of isghun blood was in his nostrils and it was dripping from Kyrin's sword-blade as she clattered down the remaining stairway from the quarterdeck. If my face is as white as hers… Aldric thought grimly, somehow dredging up a feeble smile of thanks. "Where is it now?" he demanded, following Kyrin as she ran towards the poop. The girl raised her arm in silence and Aldric knew he had been right about the isghun's vulnerable spot. Injured and unbalanced, it could only fly in sluggish oblique swoops while the Aalk-horst closed at flank speed with white water boi
ling from her prow.

  Dewan and Hautmarin Doern, bearing crossbows, were both at the starboard rail, and as Aldric drew level with him the Imperial officer clenched his fist and muttered "Now!" As if in response the warship loosened a ranging volley; then unleashed a salvo from her forward batteries that made the isghun shudder in midair. Right from the start, when only two turrets had been enough to fill En Sohra's deck with darts, Aldric had suspected that the battleram was armed with something out of the ordinary. He was right. Her first three turrets carried quick-firing catapults both wound and triggered by the same geared mechanism; they could shoot as fast as crews could crank them.

  With its wings shredded and its body punched full of gaping holes, the isghun fell towards the waiting sea. And just before it struck, it vanished—winked out of existence as if it had never been; although En Sohra's condition gave the lie to that suggestion. Doern watched his battleram swing back towards them and drew a long deep breath before settling his helmet' back in place. "That was…?"

  "Sent by my enemies, hautmarin" Aldric returned unsteadily. He felt very tired. "I told you they were powerful."

  "Quite…" The officer cleared his throat and spat across the rail. "I know now what I dislike about sorcery. Every hell-damned detail! Good luck to you, mercenary." He swung outboard and down towards his waiting cutter, then paused and looked back. "I fancy you may need it."

  The witch-wind filled Aalkhorsfs sails and with a rustle of canvas she drew away from the galion before turning leisurely, a wide, arrogant sweep which flaunted her armoured, destructive might to all aboard the merchantman. As she swung onto a parallel course the warship's bow rose and foam creamed from her ram as she came slicing past. A surge of wash made En Sohra roll heavily; then the battleram was gone, dwindling towards the horizon at the tip of an arrow-straight wake.

  As they began to put their damaged ship to rights, the Elherran crew avoided Aldric, tacitly blaming him for what had happened. The young eijo did not care. He slumped down in a quiet corner of the deck, knees drawn up, head resting on his folded arms, weak and shaking with reaction. Kyrin sat crosslegged beside him, polishing her sword. "Aldric-ain," she said, "there's something odd about this ship."