Scimitar War

by Chris A. Jackson

  Finally the man went limp. Camilla slowly pulled back from the exsanguinated corpse, her face smeared with blood but once again beautiful. She dropped the body, and eager hands hauled it away. Several villagers brought forth a large bowl of water and held it before Camilla while she laved the stains from her hands and face.

  Tipos stared as Camilla turned, strode to the far edge of the torchlight and lowered herself onto a horrific throne of human bones. Like a crimson queen she sat, her back ramrod straight, her pale hands resting on the ivory domes of two polished skulls. Without a doubt, there would be one more skull adorning the throne by morning.

  Tipos turned away and made his way back into the depths of the jungle. He fought to maintain his stealth, when all he wanted to do was run. He had only half-believed the stories told by Dura and Shambata Daroo of the demon’s feeding. He swallowed hard on both his bile and his grief. After Paska, Camilla had been the one he dreamt about, her pale skin and red lips...From now on, though, he feared that her features would only haunt his nightmares.

  Chapter 12

  Deployments

  Captain Donnely took a deep breath of salt air and gazed with satisfaction at the open ocean before him. He smiled at the welcome sense of freedom; once again he was master of his ship and all aboard her, with no admiral’s pennant looming over his head. The stifling confines of Scimitar Bay had worn his nerves thin. He was a man of action! The admiral’s decision to sit and wait for the seamage to arrive while men were being picked off by cannibals had infuriated him to no end. Now, finally, he had a chance to strike back.

  Joslan had tasked him with assessing the cannibal threat, and that suited Donnely just fine. Count Norris had gone ahead to enlist the natives’ help, so hopefully negotiations would be concluded by the time Cape Storm arrived, and they could get right into action. He considered the admiral’s warning to keep an eye on the count and ensure that he acted in the empire’s interests, not his own, and huffed a short laugh. Joslan was being overcautious to the point of paranoia. Donnely had assigned an experienced young lieutenant and two capable marines to accompany the count; if anything was amiss, Donnely would know it upon his arrival.

  Donnely looked toward the north. Resolute would be some two hundred miles away by now, the seamage secure in the brig. He shivered with a memory of the confrontation on the pier: such power… Even so, in his opinion, Joslan had acquiesced too quickly to the seamage’s demands, but it had ended well enough.

  He watched the sails of the frigate Bright Star, in company with Ice Drake, diminishing to the north. They were bound for Middle Cay to investigate the report of pirates lairing there. To Cape Storm’s lee, Iron Drake cut a sharp line on her southerly course to investigate the supposed floating city, deep in the doldrums.

  “Better you than me, Pendergast,” he muttered, “days upon days of sweeps with not a breath of wind…” The steady trade winds would whisk him to straight to Vulture Isle, and there was no sense dawdling.

  “Let’s stretch her legs, Lieutenant Parks,” he said to his first officer. “Topgallants and stays’ls as she bears upwind. Shake the reefs on the tops’ls if she’ll take it.”

  “Aye, sir!”

  Orders were relayed and men swarmed aloft to the top yards of the three towering masts. Canvas billowed, cracked and was sheeted smartly, and Cape Storm answered, heeling and charging forward, throwing spray from her forechains and taking water through her leeward scuppers on the down-roll. Donnely wondered how fast the seamage’s schooners really were. If Orin’s Pride was still at Vulture Isle, he would find out. Though Captain Brelak had said that it would be heading out to a shipyard for repairs, the admiral had ordered him to take possession of the ship if at all possible.

  Donnely grinned wide as he squinted to leeward. The drake-class ships were lighter and purportedly faster than his frigate, but they were currently pacing Iron Drake. He remembered an old sailor’s adage: if there are two ships in the water, there’s a race. Well, this wasn’t a race, but he would show that lick-boot twit Pendergast a thing or two about sailing.

  “Half a point to windward, helmsman!” he shouted, eying the compass card over the man’s shoulder. “We’re making some leeway.”

  “Aye Capt’n!” There were four men on the huge dual wheels, and they strained to bring her up into the wind another five degrees.

  “We’re cracking on nicely, sir! Eleven knots, by the log,” Parks said with a grin as he returned to the quarterdeck. “Bit of a heel, though. Might I suggest that we shift some weight belowdecks, stiffen her up a bit.”

  “Good idea. Make it so, but mind her deadeyes; we don’t want to part a shroud. With any luck, we’ll be to the island before that damned schooner makes for sea, but I don’t want to lose a spar in transit. Understood?”

  “Aye, sir!”

  “Carry on, then!” Donnely returned the man’s enthusiastic salute and resumed his customary stance: knees flexed, arms folded, eyes forward. Full sails and flying spray were enough to make any man content. The added prospect of a brisk action at journey’s end had him in high spirits indeed.

  ≈

  “Well?”

  Tipos accepted a thick slab of pork and a cup of diluted juice from Paska, and collapsed onto a mat by the morning cooking fire. “She be bloody scary,” he said, taking a bite of meat and chewing.

  Paska, Chula, Whuafa and Dura lowered themselves to their own mats and stared at him. He was exhausted—he’d been up all night, and the two men who had helped him paddle to the cannibal island and back were already fast asleep—but their eyes urged him to continue.

  “Aye, we knew that much, lad,” Dura said, running a file over an adze she had been using for her repairs on Orin’s Pride. “But what’s she doin?”

  “Feedin’,” he said, eying the meat in his hand and putting it aside, suddenly less hungry. He downed his drink and continued. “Looks to me like she be takin’ de strongest ones. She was standin’ in de middle of ‘em, and dey all bowed down and chantin’. Den she picks a warrior and dey bring him to her. Don’t know how many she take so far, but de pile of bones dey lash toge’dah for her t’rone look pretty fresh, so she been busy.”

  “T’rone?” Whuafa’s rheumy eyes widened. “Dey build her a t’rone?”

  “Yep. An’ I saw at least six new-cleaned skulls, so dere might not be too many of dere best warriors left to fight in a couple a weeks.” He picked up his meat again, worried off another bite and chewed.

  “So dey built her a t’rone,” Whuafa said. “And you said dey chanted to her. Maybe dey t’ink she some kinda god or somet’in’.”

  “Devil be more like it,” whispered Paska.

  Whuafa rubbed his wrinkled jaw in thought. “Well, she still alive, anyway. An’ every one of dem she take make dem weaker.”

  “But every one of dem she takes,” Tipos said, tearing the last bit of meat off the bone and tossing the remainder into the fire, “also make dat demon stronger.”

  “So de longer we wait, de harder it gonna be,” Paska agreed.

  ≈

  The winds were building, and Edan rejoiced.

  The persistent calm had sapped his strength. He needed wind in order to move. In the doldrums, he had had to create it from nothing; as the trade winds returned, he could use them. The complex structure of Akrotia was not just the artistic doodling of some long-dead elf. The city had been intricately designed so that the spires, towers and walls acted like sails, allowing him to propel himself though the sea at a steady, albeit slow, pace. Similarly, the lower city had been designed to take advantage of ocean currents. The sea, however, he had no control over, and it maddened him. He could feel it swirling through his lower passages, and he knew that if he could just move a little bit of water, he could double his speed. But when he reached out with his mind to the ocean, he could do nothing.

>   He was not a seamage.

  He had nearly reached the point where he would only be able to summon the winds during the day, when the sun’s heat gave him some trickle of power. Then he felt it, the barest of breezes. The breeze freshened, and now the trade winds blew steady. Bending the wind was easier than creating it, and he had picked up his pace once more.

  And there was fire ahead; he could feel it deep beneath the earth. It called to him. If he could just get close enough, he knew it would rise to his call. He remembered the bliss of Fire Isle, the glorious rapture of rising on the superheated air as the volcano roared around him, Flicker lithe and hot in his arms. Flicker…He could feel her tiny fire as she flitted from room to room, sometimes hovering outside the chamber to peer at him inside. Her presence was a comfort, familiar and friendly, the only thing he—they—didn’t hate.

  Edan stretched his senses out toward the fire…the Shattered Isles…born from the earth’s burning womb, like him. The fire would empower him, he knew, and then…He remembered telling the seamage of the volcano beneath her home—dormant, but not for long.

  Once he regained his strength, Plume Isle would burn.

  ≈

  “Paska! Chula! Tipos!” Tim shouted as he flung himself over Flothrindel’s gunwale and splashed ashore.

  He heard Lieutenant Kerry call out a rebuke, then his father saying, “It’s all right, Lieutenant. We’re acquainted with some of these natives. Tim is in no danger.” But Tim’s rush to shore wasn’t as benign as his father purported. He had information to impart that they didn’t want the imperials to get wind of.

  “Cape Storm will be here tomorrow,” he told Chula in a stage whisper after splashing ashore. Behind him, Kerry was issuing orders to anchor the smack, and his father played the pompous diplomat, demanding that they get close enough to shore so he wouldn’t wet his trousers when he disembarked; a well-orchestrated distraction, of course.

  “And her captain’s a hard case if ever I met one. He’ll confiscate Orin’s Pride if you don’t leave before he gets here. Paska and Tipos should go with you. The admiral might find a way to press charges on you for the sailors who died, though we think we convinced him that you were all kidnapped.”

  “Kidnapped?” Paska looked at him skeptically. “Who be kidnappin’ us?”

  “The cannibals that hid on Plume Isle. They killed those soldiers, then kidnapped you two and Miss Cammy. Their shaman used magic to break Flothrindel away from the dock so they could steal it to get away.” His words tumbled out, and from the incredulous looks on his friends’ faces, he knew they were finding it hard to swallow. He wiped his sodden hair off his brow and tried again. “It seemed the easiest explanation. If you both go with Chula, it won’t matter. But you’ve got to go before Cape Storm gets here.”

  “Why’s a ship comin’ here?” Tipos asked.

  “Father’s supposed to work out an alliance with your tribe to fight the cannibals, but he came ahead so he could talk to Whuafa about Miss Cammy.” He looked at the three worried faces, and forced himself to ask the question he really didn’t want answered. “Is it true? Is she really a monster?”

  “True enough,” Tipos said, biting his lip. “I seen her feedin’, and Miss Dura seen her, too.”

  Tim’s stomach lurched. Glancing over his shoulder he saw his father, now ashore, making a fuss about the water on his shoes. Huffington brushed at the water that dampened his master’s trousers, and Lieutenant Kerry and his men looked exasperated. Then they started up the beach, the military men right on the count’s heel, taking their security duty seriously. He didn’t have much more time.

  “Mistress said there might be a way to help Miss Cammy; something about tainted blood. Father wants to talk to Whuafa, but we’ve got to get the lieutenant and his men out of the way first. Huffington has something in mind for that, but it won’t be right away. Tonight.”

  “Dat Mista Huffington, he make me nervous,” Paska said, glancing toward the man in question as he innocuously trailed his master up the beach. “He like a snake, always watchin’ wit’ dem beady little eyes.”

  “He’s exactly like a snake,” Tim agreed with a grim smile. He was beginning to like Huffington, despite his previous reservations. “A poisonous one, but he’s on our side.”

  ≈

  Lieutenant Kerry slumped forward into his platter of fried plantain and roast pork, a stifled snore escaping his lips. His men had only time for a quick glance between themselves before dropping into their own meals.

  “Well done, Huffington!” Norris said, patting his secretary on the shoulder. “How long will they be out?”

  “At least a few hours, milord, though it’s hard to say. Some of these things last longer and hit harder with alcohol.” He looked at his own cup and sniffed it. “It seems rather potent.”

  The count looked nervously at the unconscious marines. “Perhaps someone should watch over them to make sure they’re all right.”

  “Dat won’t be a problem, yer Countship,” Paska said with a sly smile. She nodded, and several natives came forward to lift the lieutenant and his two companions and carry them away.

  Tim leaned close to Huffington and whispered, “Won’t the marines know they’ve been drugged when they wake up?”

  Huffington stifled a smile. “They’ll be waking up in the company of several local women, Tim.” He nodded a discreet thanks to Paska, who had unexpectedly approached him earlier with the suggestion, a boon to his original plan of just drugging the men and dealing with the repercussions later. “It’s one of the oldest diplomatic tricks in the books. Nothing shuts someone up better than a little embarrassment and the threat of an accusation of dereliction of duty.”

  Tim nodded in understanding, glancing at the count. “And Father’s okay with that?”

  “We didn’t hurt anyone, and we did the job. That’s the goal.”

  Tim nodded, and pursed his lips in thought. He started to ask another question, but thankfully, the count interrupted with an inquiry for Whuafa.

  “Now, my new friend, what can you tell us about this tainted blood incident?”

  “I rememba a bit more of de story now, wit’ de help of my young frien’ heah.” Whuafa patted his assistant on the knee and the young man smiled at the praise. “He been listenin’ to my stories all his life, and he know most of dem betta dan me now! Anyway, da story goes dat dey gave poison to a young girl, den gave her to de demon as a sacrifice. Da poison we use here in de islands is from de tree frog; we put it on arrows sometime. It act fast, and make de animal go all limp, den stop breathin’. At least, dat’s what it does when it go right into de blood. I’m t’inkin’ dis demon not too stupid. It won’ take a sacrifice dat’s near dead, so dis girl, she musta swallow it. It take longer to act dat way, an’ de demon prob’ly di’n’t get much of it. I be t’inkin’ we can do betta.”

  Norris turned to Huffington. “What do you think?”

  “Sounds like curare, milord, and he’s right. It doesn’t work nearly as well taken by mouth.” Huffington thought hard, and chose his next words carefully. “May I warn you, milord; there is a risk to Miss Camilla. There are other, less lethal concoctions that might incapacitate her. Perhaps once we have her under control, we could find a priest to exorcise the demon.”

  The count looked shaken, but his reply was firm. “We’ll do everything we can to wrest Camilla from the demon’s control without harming her. We can’t risk having the imperials catch sight of her before then. Tim!” He turned to his son. “The stories that Mistress Flaxal Brelak and Camilla told you; they said that the demon actually came out of Hydra, correct?”

  “Yes, Father,” Tim replied. “The demon killed the witch, then the pirates killed the demon.”

  “So,” the count reasoned, “the demon has a physical form. We must try to kill it without killing Camilla.�
��

  Huffington nodded, though still skeptical. He asked Whuafa, “Sir, does your legend say exactly how the witch reacted to the poison? Did she show signs of poor coordination, shaking or weakness?”

  “Not dat de story say,” Whuafa said. Frowning, he exchanged a few words with his young apprentice in their native tongue, then shook his head. “No. She jus’ barf up all de blood from de girl, den kill everyone she could get her hands on.”

  “That’s good, milord,” Huffington said. “It means that the blood was consumed by the demon, but not necessarily by the witch. If she had gotten any of the curare, she would have been in no shape to kill anyone.”

  “So, how do we poison the demon?” the count asked. He looked at Whuafa and Huffington, then over to the others, who had been unusually quiet during the discussion. “Can we poison her sacrifice somehow?”

  “You’d have to do it as she’s takin’ ‘im, I’m thinkin’,” Dura said, her broad brow furrowing. “Poison arrow, maybe, but you couldn’t shoot before she starts ta feed, or she’ll know.”

  Tipos nodded in agreement. “It’d be a tricky shot, but I was no more dan fifty feet from her last night.” He scratched his head and frowned. “It’d be impossible if de angle was wrong, and we don’t know who she be pickin’, so we can’t get in de right spot before. Maybe have ta have more’n one shooter.”

  “An’ de poison?” Paska said. “We don’t got any, and we can’t be catchin’ enough o’ dem frogs in de dark.”