* * *
Father Solmin knelt over his brazier, muttering bitterly.
Karah crouched beside him. "What does that mean?" The flames, burning in a handful of ugly colors, held no special significance for her.
He looked over at her, frowning. Then she saw his eyes flick from the dots on her cheeks to the one on her brow, and he shrugged.
"Every wizard's magic is different. Each wizard has a signature—little wizards, great ones, necromancers, anyone who does magic. I can read the signatures in the magic that surrounds us. A few ingredients, a simple spell…" He shrugged again and stared at the multicolored flames in the brazier.
"I only used the smallest of spells, so that I would be able to read nothing but the biggest of magics." He sucked in the skin of one cheek, and shook his head. "That, right there," he pointed to a red flame with a black heart, "that's Willek. The layered gold, that's Darkist" He studied her sidelong. "You're the Grenlaarin person, aren't you?"
Karah nodded.
"Right. So your family's activities will be no secret. That one is one of your people—Jawain." The flame he pointed out was almost silver.
Karah blurted. "But that's illegal!"
He snorted. "That law's enforced only when it has to be," he said "Not that the priesthood says so in public, you understand." He indicated a pale blue flame. "I've seen that one before in Derkin. None of my people—but not one of Darkist's, either, I don't think. A free agent."
He stared back at his brazier and fell silent.
He'd said nothing at all about the three biggest flames—one white as new-fallen snow, one black as midnight, one that flickered through a rainbow of colors.
"What of those?" she asked.
"Black is the mage-flame of Kevo-Death, bitter god of endings without beginnings—of loss in battle, of destruction and despair," the priest said. "He gathers his followers from the fallen among the battlefields. I would expect the presence of Kevo-Death—but his assistance…"The priest shook his head slowly. "His assistance, I fear, can only mean that he foresees greater death and destruction in the future if we go forward than if we die now. It is nothing to be wished for."
Karah shivered. She was afraid to ask, but she had to know. "What of the other two, Father Solmin?"
The priest sighed. "I don't know." He looked at her, and in his eyes she could see dread. "I don't know, and I fear to guess."
Amourgin knelt by Zeemos and drew his knife. "He breathes," the law-speaker shouted to Morkaarin over the continuing roar of the storm. "But not for much longer."
He raised the knife to bury in the pimp's heart.
First Captain Morkaarin, kneeling beside him, put a restraining hand on the law-speaker's wrist.
"First we question him!" the First Captain shouted. "Then I'm going to hang him!"
The pimp opened his eyes and stared up at the law-speaker. Then he smiled. "I have that piece of ass you fancied," he shouted "She'll die if I don't live."
Amourgin looked over at the First Captain.
"Who?" Morkaarin raised his eyebrows and mouthed the question. *■
Amourgin frowned. "Have you seen Eowlie recently?" he yelled to the First Captain.
Morkaarin shook his head "no."
Amourgin gripped the knife tighter and said, "You'll tell me what you've done with her, or I'll run you through!"
"Lookout!" Morkaarin shouted.
The law-speaker looked up and jumped to one side—one of the animate corpses crewing the ship collapsed nearly on top of him, and did not rise. Others of the dead moved to its side, and without ceremony pitched the body into the sea.
Something about that scene unnerved the law-speaker. What could kill the dead? he wondered. But he pushed the worry away. He was more interested at the moment in killing the living. One of the living, in any case. And the dead, now illuminated by the hurricane lanterns he and the First Captain had carried up, didn't bear close scrutiny. Amourgin didn't consider himself squeamish, but a man had limits.
He nodded toward the back of the ship. "Aft?" he shouted.
Morkaarin nodded, and both men grabbed Zeemos to drag him back to the aftcastle.
The instant he touched Zeemos, pain worse than fire, worse than hot iron, blazed through Amourgin's hands, up his arms, into his shoulders. His flesh glowed red; his body arced backward; he felt his lips peel back in rictus while his vision blurred in a crimson haze. His throat locked shut, and he could not scream, nor even breathe.
He toppled backward and in falling broke contact with Zeemos. He was dimly aware that beside him, the First Captain had suffered the same fate. He could do nothing about it His muscles were locked, he could not breathe—he was dying.
He willed his heart to beat, willed his blood to course through his veins. The world receded from his sight, the lanterns dimming as he starved for air, hungered for air. He felt his heart fluttering like a trapped bird in his chest, a dying bird that beat its wings against the cage of his ribs. Flights of fancy, the unsteady rush of his blood in his ears… so much he wanted to do… so much——-
And as much as he hungered for air, he hungered for something else as well. Eowlie, he thought. I never touched her—godsall, how I wish I had…
Something released inside, and like water gushing from a burst dam, air poured into his lungs. He gasped, sucked greedily at the flesh-stoking air, pulled it in and savored it as if it were the sweet, cold mountain air he knew in childhood.
The pain receded, but slowly, so slowly. After what seemed eons, his muscles unlocked. His vision returned, fuzzily at first, so that initially he could make out nothing but a faint light spot in a sea of darkness. These resolved into two, which became lanterns. A shadow grew up between the points of light, and blotted one of them out, and the shadow resolved into the form of Zeemos.
Zeemos with a knife in his hand.
Bending over the First Captain.
Amourgin scrambled to his feet and lunged, hit Zeemos with his shoulder, and again felt that sudden horrible agony. But he bounced off before it could down him. Zeemos spun—fast for a big man, the law-speaker thought muzzily. And then he charged at Amourgin, knife held low.
Morkaarin grabbed the pimp's foot and jerked. Amourgin saw a fiery glow surround the foot and the officer's hands, saw the pimp stagger toward him, hands out. Amourgin jumped out of the way, started to draw his sword—and stopped, as the fat man staggered to the rail and fell heavily against it.
Bren charged across the deck, sword out. Zeemos saw the blade coming, and his nerve failed him. He screamed and started to throw himself backward over the rail, scrabbling for purchase on the slick deck. The First Captains sword slid into the fat man's belly so hard Amourgin could see the First Captain's arm jerk as the point hit the wood of the ship rail on the other side. The pimp and the sword glowed red—but not before the First Captain had let go of his weapon and backed off.
Zeemos stared at Morkaarin, and down at the blade run through him. He opened his mouth, and Amourgin thought for an instant that he was going to say something. But blood ran from the corner of his mouth, down the side of his face. Zeemos glowed red, lit up from the inside as if he were suddenly made of glass. The glow spread around him as he hung, transfixed on the rail. Then the ship pitched—hard. It threw Amourgin and Bren up against the rail, while Zeemos' body toppled over into the sea. The First Captain and Amourgin stared down into the darkness. They saw nothing but the glowing blob that was Zeemos floating in the water, and that only for an instant before the sea swallowed him.
Good riddance, Amourgin thought, gripping the rail—then abruptly the sea lit up. The waves flashed crimson, illuminated from within by a magical fire. The glowing red stain spread until all the sea seemed to burn; false dawn, with no hope in it In the suddenly glowing water, Amourgin could see the silhouettes of huge fish hunting schools of shadows that darted and fled before them. He found himself looking over the edge of the ship to the sea floor, full of large rocks, frighteningly near. Then
a glowing waterspout grew out of the sea—out of the center of light that marked the point where Zeemos' body floated beneath the waves—toward the still-black sky; rose until it lit the bellies of the nearest clouds so they looked stained by gods' blood, while the glowing waves around the spout grew taller and wilder, while the rain slashed down just outside the invisible barrier in sheets and thunder roared and lightning cracked.
As the fiery glow touched the ships of the dead which had paced the Sea Mare, those wrecks sank back into the water, and tumbled beneath the waves to lie on the murky sea floor.
The Sea Mare once again rode the waves, and did not ride them well. The wind tore at her, the rain pounded her, and the angry sea threw her nearer and nearer the towering pillar of glowing water. Then the tip of the waterspout blossomed high above the little ship and began to pour down like a rain of fire.
Both men fought their way across the pitching deck toward the shelter of the forecastle.
It was then Amourgin realized the situation was worse even than he could have imagined. The dead who had crewed the ship now lay along the deck, unmoving. No living sailors had yet taken their places. The ship rode the sea with no more guidance than a piece of driftwood.
CHAPTER XI
"Don't you have t' feed the flames?" Karah asked Solmin. "How do they burn without wood or oil?"
The priest crouched over the brazier, drawing imaginary lines above the flames with a finger. "The magic feeds them. Each flame draws a bit of energy from the magician who sends it."
The two of them crouched by the brazier a few moments longer, and the priest shook his head. "I fear these many flames. We are the focus for evil intent, and I cannot understand the meaning of the crossing of these magic trails. Darkist aims evil at us—but if I read the flames aright, Willek too has cursed this ship. Jawain weaves some protections around us, as does the stranger from Derkin. And the three greater flames indicate conflict on a grand scale, with this ship as the prize."
Karah wrapped her arms rightly around herself, shivering. Magic frightened her. She stared at those colored lights, burning steadily; tiny fires that indicated the wills and workings of people over whom she had no control—and most of whom seemed intent on working ill against her.
Without warning, the flames flattened out and streamed sideways as if a strong breeze blew them—though Karah felt no wind in the forecastle, and the hatch which led to the deck remained closed.
"Oh!" the priest whispered.
Karah didn't like the way he said that.
The ship began to sway and rock, but it steadied after a moment and sailed smoothly again. Karah felt as if she were trapped in one of her nightmares—as if the walking dead on the deck above, and the howling storm, and the creaking, battered ship were all elements of a horrid dream that would vanish at sunrise. She wished wholeheartedly that were so.
The air above the brazier crackled and snapped, and abruptly all the magical fires save one went out That one grew, grew from a tiny flame to a conflagration that threw off golden light without heat.
"Darkist," the priest whispered, and threw a handful of powder into the flame, and muttered a fervent prayer.
The flame flickered out—and in the same instant, the waves caught up the Sea Mare in their furious grasp and threw her forward, sideways, backward in a sudden, violent game of catch. Karah fell, skidded into wounded comrades, then flew in a tangle of bodies against the bulkhead next to the hatch. The ship bucked again, and she found herself hurtling into the starboard hull. She lay in a heap on the decking, ribs aching. She could feel blood running down the back of her throat, and she was pretty sure she'd broken her nose. Someone's knee jammed into her belly, someone else's elbow into her jaw. One of her eyes was swollen shut, and her left leg twisted agonizingly underneath her.
The ship groaned, and the hull shuddered. And then it was still.
First Captain Morkaarin staggered into the forecastle and shouted above the roar of the storm, "We've run aground!"
The ship's captain burst in behind him. "Ship's startin' t' break apart Get into the dinghies before she goes down!"
The horses, Karah thought She got up and ran with the press of the uninjured, but where they ran for the single dinghy, she ran to tile hatch in the center of the ship that led down into the hold.
The Sea Mare was caught fast on rocks, battered on all sides by waves—she groaned and creaked, and even as Karah went down into the darkness of me hold, the mainmast over her head snapped with a gunshot crack and fell into the sea, trailing rigging and rope. The horses were panicked. She realized why fast enough. She stepped into water that swirled around her thighs, warm and dark. Something cold and slick washed up against her—she recognized the feel of a human body, and her skin crawled. She slogged toward the bulkhead that divided the storage compartment from the makeshift stable, her gorge rising in her throat. She felt along the hull—she'd been into the hold for supplies, and thought she remembered where a couple of sledgehammers were.
"Karah? Are you down here?"
She recognized the voice as the First Captain's. Her fingers located the sledgehammer, not too far from where she remembered it. "I'm here!" she yelled. "I'm goin' after the horses!"
"M help. We can't winch 'em out, though. Masts are all gone."
"Thought I'd knock a hole in the side, if the sea hasn't done it for me."
She reached the bulkhead door and opened it. The panicked whinnies of the horses grew louder.
With a terrific groan and the sound of splintering wood, the ship canted to port. Karah fell heavily against one of the horses; the beast kicked out at her and connected solidly on her gut. She yelped in a strangled voice and climbed uphill to the central corridor between the stalls, forcing her diaphragm to work.
The ship shuddered again, and she fell to one knee and got a mouthful of seawater. A warm, strong arm slipped around her waist and pulled her upright. "Careful," the First Captain yelled "Head to the uphill side. More likely it will be out of the water."
She went clear aft, and on the starboard side of the ship, began beating against the hull with the sledgehammer.
Morkaarin joined her, working on one of the framing timbers with an axe. The wood splintered easily—Karah broke out a horse-high section of the hull between one set of timbers and started on the planks between the next section.
"Damned ship was held together by wishful thinking," the First Captain shouted His words echoed her own thoughts. The hull was rotten—it was nothing short of a miracle that they weren't all dead already.
She thought of the walking dead and the priests flames in the brazier while she swung the sledgehammer and decided she'd had a miracle, all right.
Waves slammed into her through the hole she and the First Captain made and added to the flood in the hold. The ship creaked again, the horses plunged and reared, screaming all the while, and above their heads on the main deck, something else crashed.
When Karah began pounding on the next section of wood, the First Captain yelled, "That's going to have to be good enough! Afraid we're going to go down with her if we don't get out."
Karah slogged along the canted deck to the first of the makeshift stalls, fought her way past the panicked animal, and untied the rope that bound it to the ship. In the dark, she couldn't see the horse, and she was so shaken she couldn't remember which beast it was. She thought she knew where Glorylad and Broucher were, but she couldn't be sure. She backed the horse out, dodging hooves and teeth, and handed the lead rope off to Morkaarin. While he shooed the horse through the hole in the hull into the sea, she went back for the next.
It all blurred together on her—the dark cold wetness; the lacks and bites; the terrified, almost human screams. But it got harder, as the water rose to her waist and as she wearied The bit of sleep she'd gotten on the hard floor in the forecastle hadn't been enough; she found herself fighting uphill with no clear idea of what she was doing or why.
The ship heaved again, and the creaking
changed in character and became a steady roar—the sound of wood ripping loose from wood.
"Out! Now!" Morkaarin yelled, and when she shouted back at him, something incoherent about not leaving the rest of the horses, he lashed a length of rope around her waist, then around his;—he dragged her to the hole they'd made and leapt through, taking her with him.
The sea swallowed them, smashed them up against the side of the ship, then threw them back into its depths. The sea pounded Karah, tangled her against a limp, heavy body—left her half-dazed, but not so dazed that she gave up and inhaled the water. She clawed her way up to the heaving swells on the surface, gasped and spit and coughed until her lungs were clear, and found a piece of wreckage to cling to.
And then she remembered the rope around her waist and pulled on it experimentally. It resisted—and she pulled harder, suddenly remembering what was on the other end. She hauled with all her strength, and the First Captain's body came toward her, face down in the water, unmoving. In the faintest of light, light that promised true dawn at last, she could make out his pale form.
No! she thought. She reeled him in, using one hand and her teeth, while her other arm clutched the remains of the Sea Mare's framing timbers.
The waves dunked her under the water, but she held fast to the timber and the rope, and came up quickly with the First Captain's body right beside her. Drowning, she thought, and recalled the farmhand her parents had pulled out of the watering pond, and the children who fell into the river from time to time. Sometimes they could be saved, she recalled She pulled Morkaarin's head up and held his body so his back was to her chest The two of them rode the swells, and Karah prayed She pushed on his stomach with her free hand—knotted the hand into a fist, punched up beneath his ribs. The first time, nothing happened. The second time she was equally unsuccessful. On the third punch, the First Captain vomited up seawater and bile and coughed and gasped. She kept his head leaning forward, and heard him draw in a shaky breath. Then another, and a third. He still hung limply in her arms, but now he breathed on his own.
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