Scimitar Moon

by Chris A. Jackson

  “The only reason I don’t open your throat with this is that I was ordered not to kill you. I was unfortunately also ordered not to cause permanent damage, but Bloodwind said nothing about a few cuts just to make sure you don’t cause trouble. How would you like it, eh? The face? The fingers? Maybe you’d like me to cut your tongue down the middle, you little viper!”

  “Rot… in… hell,” she croaked, gasping for each breath. Deep down, she knew they would kill her. It would be better sooner and quicker, rather than later and slower.

  “I’d give you over to the crew for some entertainment, but we’re a bit busy right now. I think I’ll just make sure you don’t run away.”

  He slashed the laces of her shoes and tore them free, ripping off her stockings as she kicked at him; visions of severed toes flooded her mind’s eye as curses worthy of a seasoned sailor flew from her lips.

  “Hold still now, little girl.” He grasped one ankle and brought the blade to the sole of her foot, but stopped as Koybur’s raspy voice called out from the helm.

  “No permanent damage, Yodrin!”

  “Shut your mouth, Koybur, or I’ll sew it shut!”

  Cynthia’s scream shivered the air as Yodrin’s knife sliced the bottom of her foot from heel to toe. Another scream wrenched at her lungs as he cut her other foot. The cuts were not deep, but deep enough. Blood pooled at her feet as her screams devolved into sobs.

  “No permanent damage,” Yodrin said, cleaning his blade on her skirt and sheathing it. “Somebody wash this blood off the deck!”

  One of the sailors dashed a bucket of seawater over her feet. She bit back another scream as the salt water struck the cuts. She clenched her eyes tightly against the nightmare. Ghelfan was right—they were in very deep trouble indeed.

  *

  “Haul away!”

  Three seamen hauled, and the recut trysail soared aloft. Rigged with its tack and clew hoisted to the mainmast, and the head drawn forward to the foremast cap head, it made a passable staysail and moved some of the effort aft. The helm eased somewhat, and Horace sighed in relief.

  “She’s not gripin’ so much now, sir. Right nice!”

  “Log!” Feldrin shouted, and the log line was pitched over the side.

  In less than a minute the crewman shouted back, “Eighteen!” A cheer rang out from the deck, but Feldrin’s features remained set in stone.

  “Sighting on Hippotrin!” His tone was curt, his manner as sharp as the axes at his belt. They had lost another half mile on the other ship as they worked, and the wind wasn’t cooperating. It would pick up, rising to near-gale strength, but then ease off to a mere stiff breeze.

  “She’s not pulled away any more, sir,” the lookout called from the bow. “We may have gained a bit.”

  “About bloody damned time!” Brelak turned and scanned the deck for anything else they could throw over the side, but aside from the longboat, every spare bit of equipment had already been jettisoned to lighten their load.

  “This ain’t no ordinary blow, Capt’n.” Horace’s eyes scanned the horizon, the leaden sky, and the dark streaks of cloud. “Got the feel of a cyclone.”

  “Too early for it,” he said, clenching his jaw. He knew the feel of a hurricane, and had seen and felt the telltale cloud patterns and the constant shifting of the wind, but such storms were generally not seen for another month. “Just a blow. It’ll peter out by mornin’.”

  “Hope you’re right, sir. This new rigging’s not up fer a real storm.”

  “Capt’n!” Rowland trundled up onto the deck, grinning like a maniac. “I’ve got it! The stove! We can set it on chocks, manhandle it into the main hold and use it as a counterweight. It’s gotta tip the scales at eight hundred-weight. We rig blocks and shift it to the windward side and block it in place. That’ll bring her upright!”

  Feldrin thought for a moment. There was a great deal of danger in having that much weight loose belowdecks. If a line parted, the heavy cast iron stove could smash through a frame, or even through the hull.

  “Do it.” He bit his lip and glared up at the darkening sky as Rowland barked orders to the crew and dashed below.

  “Don’t you worry, sir. We’ll catch up.”

  “Aye, but it’s gotta be a’fore dark.” He looked at Horace, then at the distance between the two ships. “Two hours, at best.”

  They looked at one another, knowing that the gap was not closing quickly enough to meet that deadline. Neither said it, but they both knew Hippotrin would still be well ahead when darkness fell.

  CHAPTER Thirty

  Old Friends and New Enemies

  Darkness and despair descended on Cynthia like a cold damp blanket. Spray from the bow left her wet and chilled, adding misery upon misery.

  Whispered discussion with Ghelfan yielded little hope; their only value to Bloodwind was their ability to render working drawings of the new ship design. A fleet of the new ships outfitted as corsairs would decimate shipping in the Southern Ocean.

  “And I gave it to him,” she muttered, clenching and re-clenching her hands. “I gave him the one thing he couldn’t get for himself, and I gave it to him without a fight.”

  “Hush, Cynthia.” Ghelfan’s voice was calm and matter-of-fact, as always. “You gave him nothing. You followed your heart, and he stole your dream from you. That is nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “But think, Ghelfan! Think of what he’ll do with a fleet of ships like this!”

  Hippotrin capped a swell and plunged into a trough, then soared up the next wave, flying like her namesake in the climbing wind.

  “How fast do you think we’re going? Fifteen knots? Twenty? I’ve never heard of a ship that’d do twenty knots, and here we are doing it. Wet decks and a bit of a stiff ride, but we’re sailing twice the pace any other ship on the sea could manage, and she’s not even straining. What will Bloodwind do with this?”

  “He’ll take the whole Southern Ocean, and the Emperor of Tsing will be forced to send a naval force against him, which will fail. Bloodwind will demand tithe from every ship that passes the Shattered Isles, and will eventually build a nation of his own.” The shipwright paused, and Cynthia could hear the logic of his words whirling in her mind. “That is how nations are born, Mistress Flaxal.”

  “Under the yoke of someone like Bloodwind? Impossible!”

  “Not at all. He is probably no worse than the first Emperor of Tsing, or some of the northern warlords or the princes of the southern deserts. Authority, whether good or ill in nature, builds stability, which builds a nation.”

  “Which makes me feel that much worse. I’ve made him a bloody king! What next?”

  “You two should keep quiet.”

  Neither had noticed Koybur approaching from the stern cabin. He bore a steaming tin cup in one hand and a cloth-wrapped packet under his maimed arm. “I can hear you from well aft. Yodrin’s called fer silent runnin’, so unless you want a gag in yer mouth…”

  “And you should take a flying leap over the rail!” Cynthia said between clenched teeth, turning away from the cup he held before her. Her stomach clenched again, but this time it wasn’t nausea. Koybur’s betrayal hurt worse than all of her other injuries combined. He had been her friend, her mentor, her confidant and more. And he had betrayed her, uniting with the very man who had killed her parents. Until now she had only been able to glare at him as he stood at the wheel. Now, here he was offering her a cup of tea. “I don’t want anything from you!”

  “Be that way, then.” He offered the cup to Ghelfan, who drank deeply, though he offered no thanks. Koybur put the empty cup down and offered jerky and bread, which the shipwright ate.

  “I’m the only friend you’ve got on this ship, Cyn. You’ll not get a scrap from this lot, and like as not more stripes from Yodrin’s dagger, if you don’t learn yer manners.”

  “Friend?” She could barely pronounce the word in his presence. “You were more than a friend to me, Koybur. You were the only father I’ve had for the
past fifteen years, and this is how you treat me? You sell out to that?” She choked back tears, but felt that she had to continue. “How much did it cost to buy you, Koybur? How much gold did Bloodwind pay you for your soul?”

  “You think I did this for money?” The utter disgust in his voice brought her eyes up to his tortured face. She saw the pain there, and wondered. “I din’t sell out, Cynthia Flaxal. Some things in this world’re worth more’n gold. Some’re worth more’n friendship. Some’re even worth more’n a man’s soul!”

  He spun on his maimed leg and limped aft, leaving her dumbstruck.

  Ghelfan nudged her with his bound wrists and whispered, “He may be a traitor, Cynthia, but he is also the only one aboard likely to bring us anything to eat or drink. It may be a long time before we get a real meal.”

  “I don’t want anything from him,” she said, keeping her voice as low as possible.

  “You might change your mind in a day or two.”

  “No, I won’t! You don’t understand, Ghelfan. I’ve known Koybur twice as long as I knew my parents. He taught me everything I know about sailing and shipping. How could he do something like this?”

  “Who knows what motivates a man to betray his friends? But from his tone, I believe that it was not money.”

  A hissed curse and a kick from a passing seaman forced them into silence as the clouds faded from gray to black. As Hippotrin climbed a swell, Cynthia looked aft into the confused seas of their wake. About a mile distant, she could barely make out the straining jibs of Orin’s Pride fading into the gloom.

  *

  “Lookout!” Brelak called up to the man stationed at the top of the foremast. “Where away?” He could no longer make out Hippotrin’s sails in the darkness, but there was more than one way to track a ship at night.

  “Dead ahead, Capt’n!” The lookout called, waving a hand forward. “I can still make out her trail clear as day!”

  Every sailor who plied the Southern Ocean knew that a ship sailing at night threw up a considerable wake of luminous foam. On a clear night, that trail could be seen for some distance. To aid in the lookout’s task, all shipboard lights were doused, but the rough seas were a problem, for every white-capped swell also shone with the green-white radiance. It would be very easy to lose the trail.

  “Keep a sharp eye. Call out if the bearing changes.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “You think we got a chance of followin’ ’em all night?” Rowland asked.

  “If we keep up and the weather don’t go to hell, yeah. If it rains, or if the seas start breakin’ more…” He didn’t need to finish that thought. They both knew their chances.

  *

  “They follow, my captain,” Hydra hissed, fresh blood dripping from her fingertips into the tepid pool of swirling seawater. “Hippotrin leaves a trail in the water. The Morrgrey follows it like a hound on the scent.”

  “Obscure the trail, Hydra.” Bloodwind didn’t even bother looking to the witch; instead, he ran a rough finger down the flawless curve of Camilla’s arm. She leaned into the caress instead of pulling away as she had so many thousands of times before. It was such a simple action, but it brought him more pleasure than any of the whores in Blood Bay could have. He smiled, and his thoughts wandered to the other sweet curves of Camilla’s body before Hydra’s voice brought him back to the present.

  “There is a storm building, my captain. It will require much to bend the will of such a storm. I shall require more… nourishment.”

  “Very well, Hydra. One more.” He called to the guard, and the man brought a struggling slave down the steps. “Give him to her.”

  The slave pleaded and strained at his bonds as the guard handed the lead over to the crone’s bony grip. Bloodwind turned and drew Camilla away from the grisly spectacle. “Just see that they lose the trail, Hydra.”

  “Of course, my captain,” she agreed only moments before a bloodcurdling scream rent the torrid air of the cavern. By the time the screams died, Bloodwind and Camilla were at the thick oaken door that sealed the cavern. The door closed, muffling the sultry, gurgling laughter of Hydra taking her meal. He’d watched her feed once; he would never make that mistake again. He caressed Camilla’s shoulder again, but her smooth flesh shivered and she pulled away.

  “Something wrong, my dear?” He trailed his hand trail down to her wrist, so conspicuously absent of her golden chains and manacles.

  “Just the sound of it,” she said, turning to him with a weak smile. She took his hand, and squeezed it reassuringly. “She makes my skin crawl.”

  “Her claws will never touch your flesh again, my dear.” He guided her through the rough-hewn caverns until they exited onto the main foyer of the palace. The sky above bore no stars and no moon, nothing but foreboding clouds, and the wind-whipped tops of the palms. Yes, a storm was brewing.

  *

  A fog blew in on the heels of gale-force winds, adding a chill to the air. Cynthia began to shiver. Despite the nausea that hung over her like a shroud, she longed for a mouthful of water to wash the vile taste from her mouth.

  “This fog’s not natural,” Ghelfan whispered. The shipwright’s words startled her; what he said made no sense. How could fog be anything but natural?

  “What do you mean?”

  “Winds and seas this high are not naturally conducive to fog. Someone is wielding power here, helping Yodrin obscure this ship.”

  “Power. You mean magic?” Cynthia’s mind whirled in a morass of misery, leaving her unable to think.

  “Yes. A seamage, or a priest of Odea, or even a common wizard might conjure such a mist.”

  “You think Yodrin’s a wizard?”

  “If he is, he has not previously shown any talent. Then again, he has been hiding his true identity for months.”

  Faint laughter reached them from aft, though Cynthia could not identify the voice. The mists were now so thick that both the bow and stern were obscured. Several crewmen ran past, going forward. The large wooden wheel creaked, and the yards thumped against the mainmast as the sails shifted—they were turning.

  The ship heaved over as the course change set them beam-on to the great seas for a moment, then stabilized as the waves shifted to her aft quarter. Now, instead of beating against the weather, the ship’s stern lifted to allow the waves to flow beneath her. Hippotrin’s pace increased until she raced along the wave fronts, surfing with the enormous swells.

  “They’ve made their turn,” Ghelfan said unnecessarily. “There’ll be no finding them in this soup now.”

  “I don’t think—” Cynthia’s comment came up short when something small grabbed her hand and crawled up her wrist. She almost screamed, her mind conjuring up images of hungry rats making their way up from the bilges to feast on her fingers. But no teeth or claws dug into her flesh; she felt only a faint tugging at the knots binding her wrists.

  “Mouse?” she hissed quietly with realization. She hadn’t seen the little seasprite since she passed out, but there could be no other explanation. A tiny flame of hope ignited in her breast. “Mouse, come here!”

  “Cynthia, what is it?” Ghelfan sounded worried; she could feel him flexing against the mast.

  “Don’t worry, it’s Mouse. Maybe he can…” The tugging at her wrist ceased and she felt the sprite crawl up her arm, clinging to her clothing to keep from being blown away by the ripping wind. Finally he reached her shoulder, his high-pitched twittering loud in her ear.

  “Keep out of sight, Mouse.” She turned to take stock of her little friend. He looked like he’d been run through a ringer, dripping wet and windblown. “You poor thing. You must have been hiding under a coil of line or something.”

  He twittered and shrugged, obviously unconcerned with his disheveled appearance.

  “Mouse, I need you to do something for me, okay?”

  He nodded vigorously, grinning and chirping.

  “I need you to find Feldrin. I need you to fly to Orin’s Pride and bring them here.
Can you do that?”

  Mouse looked up at the screaming wind, then over his shoulder at his patchwork wings. The storm had already torn some of the stitched-together bits of gossamer, and he had been missing a good bit from his lower left wing since his fateful encounter with Julia Garrison’s broom. He flexed his wings, fluttered them, and tried to fly up against the wind. In a blink he was torn off her shoulder and flung to the deck in a tumbling heap. He crawled back to Cynthia and scaled her damp blouse, laboriously regaining his perch on her shoulder. She already knew the answer when he hung his head in shame and shook it. He just couldn’t fly well enough to stay aloft in this wind.

  “Its okay, Mouse. Don’t feel bad. Maybe we can think of some other way to get these ropes off, though I don’t know what I could—”

  The seasprite’s face lit up, and his head bobbed enthusiastically. He leapt off her shoulder and scampered across the wet deck, dashing from one hiding place to another until he vanished into the gloom.

  “What was that all about?” Ghelfan asked, shifting his weight to a more comfortable position.

  “I think he’s going to try to help us,” she said, worry for her little friend mixing with her other miseries. “I hope he doesn’t get squashed in the process.”

  *

  “Where the hell did this come from?” Brelak cracked his knuckles and glared around the mist-shrouded deck. The bowsprit shone only as a dim outline, and the lookout had completely vanished in the veil of mists that shrouded the ship. “Lookout! Can you see anything?”

  “Nothin’ but fog, Capt’n.”

  “Damn! I never seen the likes of it! Not with this wind.”

  “Don’t seem natural, Capt’n.” He stared at Rowland as he emerged from belowdecks bearing two steaming mugs. “Do ya remember the tale of Orin Flaxal’s fall, with the mists comin’ up from nowhere when they was far out to sea?” He passed the hot blackbrew to captain and helmsman, nodding aloft. “Bloodwind’s got a mage on his side, or so the stories go.”