by Jude Fisher
The ship which had led the attack now fell back amidst its fellows, Ravn saw with contempt. So much for leading by example, he thought, as his father had always taught him. ‘Go after it!’ he counselled his steersman.
‘There’s a number of vessels between us and her, sire,’ the man returned. ‘It won’t be easy.’
It wasn’t. For an hour they battled their way between both enemy and allied ships. Burned-out hulks hindered their progress, and other Istrian vessels intervened, sometimes with deliberate aggression, more often because they found themselves unable to manoeuvre out of the way. There was smoke everywhere: from the southern ships they had fired; from the missiles hurled back by the Istrians. He had killed Sur knew how many of the enemy: he had lost count. Blood ran down his arms, down his sword. He fought back to back with one man, then another when the first was cut down; a third after that. But still the southerners kept coming, ship after ship after ship. All new, he noticed; all of familiar design.
Damn Morten Danson. If he ever laid hands on the man, he’d hang and quarter him personally for this treachery.
He was tired. They were all tired; but they were not just fighting for themselves, nor for their families, but for the Eyran way of life; an Eyran future. If Halbo fell, Istria would take this, their last stronghold, and make it their own. The men would be put to the sword, the women raped and sown with Istrian seed, a new generation of children who would know nothing of their proud heritage and whose Eyran mothers would be shrouded in cloth and stashed away for sex. The idea of his wife being subjected to such ignominy lent him renewed power and an enemy’s head was suddenly cleaved from his shoulders with such force it flew clean off and landed with a splash in the gore-tinged surf.
The sun climbed in a crimson-streaked sky and he remembered abruptly his mother’s words of doom:
Blood will come from the south and mar the snows of Eyra; white skin will gape and run red. Sorcery has risen, wild magic all around. Fire will fall on Halbo. Hearts will wither, many die . . .
Perhaps this was the end of everything then: his doom. If so, he would seek out the Istrian leader and take him down to Sur’s Howe with him – by whatever means he could.
As the tall cliffs of Eyra’s mainland loomed ahead of them, the Master gave out an almighty roar of frustration, rousing Aran Aranson from his stupor.
‘What?’ he asked blearily. ‘What do you see?’
When the old man said nothing, he swivelled in his seat. Black smoke streaked a sky made bloody by the risen sun. Plumes of it; towers of it. No mere bonfires, these: no whale-rendering or festivity had created such a smog. Halbo City must be afire. He turned back, aghast.
‘Are they here?’ he cried. ‘The enemy?’
At last the mage fixed him with his fearsome stare. ‘Your enemy: not mine. All men are the same to me. The one I seek is here; but not as I left her, ah no. We may already be too late—’
The luckless man frowned. Dulled by magic, by pain and by grief, he shook his head, took a firmer grip on the oars and recommenced his chore, while the old man ranted and raged.
The din rang all around them – the ring of iron on iron, shouts of fury and fear, the crackle of fire, the cries of the dying. The noise of the wailing child was entirely drowned by the cacophony around it, which was the sole satisfaction Rui Finco could derive from the situation. One moment, Falla’s Mystery had been in clear view, drawing away from the fighting vessels as if to flee the battle, the next, a burning ship had drifted between them and their destination and smoke engulfed everything. Pieces of falling timber and flaming sail rained down around them, forcing them to abandon a direct course.
When they cleared the immediate danger, the Lord of Forent stood up precariously in the stern and waved his hands to dispel the smoke.‘This is chaos,’ he declared through gritted teeth. ‘Chaos.’
A larger than average wave lapped in over the low gunwale and sloshed around in the bilges. They had, he noted bitterly, nothing to bail with. He teetered and sat down quickly before he lost his balance and made a more intimate acquaintance with the ocean. From dry ground it had all seemed so simple: the flagship in plain view and a mere two hundred yards away; all they had to do was to cross that small expanse to safety. But that small expanse might as well have been a raging sea.
‘We could row beyond the harbour into open water and wait out the battle,’ Erol Bardson shouted above the noise.
Rui Finco scanned the unwelcoming sea beyond the towers and shivered. Waves stretched away to the far, tilting horizon, grey and chill and topped by long windblown ridges of breaking surf. Never had the Northern Ocean seemed so inimical. The difference between traversing any part of it in a finely crafted longship and this flimsy little tub had never been so apparent. ‘If we hit any waves larger than the last, we’ll be lost for sure. Just keep rowing, damn you!’
With the sea leaking in and the cold in his bones, the Lord of Forent wished with a passion they had not left the shore; wished he had given the Earl of Broadfell’s original plan – to flee inland on some solid nags – more serious consideration. Anything was better than this.
Lady Falla, get us safe aboard an Istrian ship and I will worship you for the rest of my life. I will give up the women and the wine and become your priest. Just deliver me from this hell!
It was an unspoken prayer; but as if he had offered it up with due pomp, ceremony and bloody sacrifice, it brought a miraculous response. Ahead of them, the smoke cleared suddenly; and there was Falla’s Mystery, looking remarkably intact, apart from some charring near the stern.
‘Give me your oar, you fool!’ Rui Finco pushed the ineffectual sorcerer out of the way, took his place on the crossbench and put his back into the rowing as if the ship ahead of them was a mirage which might vanish in seconds. Moments later, wood groaned against wood, followed by muted exclamations of amazement and delight. Eager hands reached down, and the Lord of Forent and Erol Bardson lifted up the shrouded figure of the unconscious queen, and watched as she was passed wonderingly into the vessel. The serving girl got to her feet with the babe cradled firmly in her arms, and stood ready to be transferred next, but Rui Finco pushed past her and launched himself over the gunwale of the rocking ship, his legs waving in the air like an overturned beetle until at last he tumbled thankfully onto the deck. After that, there was such a rush to bring the other passengers aboard that the longship listed dangerously and the captain yelled for discipline and came to find out what all the fuss was about. But when he saw what had been fished out of the ocean he swore in amazement, and went to fetch his commander.
‘My lord—’
‘Not now, Haro.’
‘We’ve taken aboard some survivors. I think you’ll want to see them for yourself, sir.’
Tycho Issian was annoyed to be so distracted. The battle was going well: another of the Eyran vessels had just succumbed to fire, its crew leaping overboard as flames consumed the last of the rigging and brought the sail tattering amongst them. He watched the Leaping Pig bear down on the men in the water, battering them with oars, with spars and spears and anything that came to hand.
‘Kill him, yesss – excellent!’ The Eyran went down, his skull split apart, one hand stretched beseechingly to the sky. A man to his right shrieked as a spear pierced him where he trod water. At last Tycho turned to the captain. ‘Did you see that? Right through the guts. We shall slaughter them all before this day is out, blasted heathens! So much for the power of this Sur they call upon; so much for their pagan beliefs. We shall scour the North clean and—’
Something behind the man’s shoulder distracted him from this diatribe. He frowned and stared. There was a woman on his ship, a woman with her arms wrapped around a wailing bundle. She looked a lot like . . . she was—
‘Selen!’
The woman looked confused, fearful. She turned this way and that, disoriented by the sudden noise, the press of men; a half-familiar voice. Someone took the baby from her and wrapped a cloak around
her, and now she looked even more bewildered than she had before.
Tycho broke the spell. He strode down the ship, pushing men roughly out of his way. ‘My daughter,’ he croaked. ‘It is my daughter Selen.’
Rui Finco wiped bilgewater off his breeches and interposed himself between them swiftly, before the man could press home this insane claim. ‘Her name is Leta Gullwing, and I claim her as my booty!’
The Lord of Cantara’s gaze swivelled reluctantly away from the riveting sight of his lost daughter, returned to him suddenly amidst bloodshed and horror in this foreign place, and his eyes bulged in shock.
‘You!’ The single word emerged as a howl of outrage. Saliva bubbled on Tycho Issian’s lower lip. The walnut hue of his face deepened and flowered dark red; sweat burst out on his forehead.
Rui Finco frowned. Clearly it had not been the best idea he had ever had to leave the Lord of Cantara in charge of the fleet, for the stress of such responsibility had sent him mad. ‘There, now, my friend,’ he said soothingly and stepped forward. ‘Calm yourself.’ He put out a hand to give the man a reassuring pat on the shoulder; and was suddenly privy to a searing sensation and the sight of that hand flying far from the arm to which it had all its natural life been attached, gore spouting furiously. Like a man in a dream, he watched the obscene item land with a splash in the waters of Halbo harbour and vanish from sight. Then he stared at the gushing stump where his hand had been. Only then did the pain and realisation come crashing in.
‘You have gone mad! I am the Lord of Forent—’
But even this did not have the desired effect. Instead of returning to his senses and falling at once to his knees in shame, Tycho Issian leapt away, flourishing his stained sword and shrieking, ‘I have him! I have him! Take him, put him in chains: shackle him to the mast!’
Two of the big Galians came forward immediately, grabbed the prisoner under the arms and dragged him away. Blood jetted from his wound, marking his passage with a foul trail of crimson.
Leta Gullwing, who had in another life been Selen Issian, watched this tableau play itself out before her in horror. Then she ran at the man who had once been her father and rained down blows upon him. ‘You monster! You vile, bloody monster! What have you done? You have maimed him! Do you not know the King of the Northern Isles when you see him? And yet you treat him like a common criminal, no worse – a wild beast. I spit upon you, your goddess and your war—’
And she did. The gobbet landed with surprising force upon Tycho Issian’s cheek, slid slowly down it like a slug.
The Lord of Cantara wiped his hand across his face in disgust, then wiped his hand on the fresh clothing he had donned to greet the Rose of the World. Things were not going at all to plan. He regarded the woman he had thought to be his daughter with repulsion. This creature with her flashing eyes and filthy mouth was not the doe-eyed girl who had been stolen away at the Allfair: this was a harpy, a termagant, a thing of the gutter, no doubt defiled by all and sundry, and welcoming each newcomer with open legs. She was vile; she was not his child, seed of his loins, pride of his house. He would have her put over the side; but he had other matters to attend to—
‘Out of my way, harlot!’
He shoved her hard and she went down in a sprawl, and then he was past her and his way was clear. His enemy, the King of Eyra, was his, a captive, securely chained to the central mast. Elation rose in him. None could deny him his right now: the time for reckoning had come.
The man looked half dead already, which was distressing: he had lost a lot of blood.
As if reading his thoughts, the ship’s chirurgeon stepped forward. ‘Let me cauterize his wound, lord,’ he suggested. ‘He’ll be of no value to us dead.’
‘Value?’
‘As ransom, my lord. Now that you hold prisoner the King of the Northern Isles and his wife, they will surely surrender—’
Wife? Tycho Issian frowned. ‘Wife?’ he said aloud and the chirurgeon nodded and indicated the crowd of men astern who were gathered there, staring down at something with utter fascination. Reluctantly, they parted at his barked order to reveal a pale form, apparently asleep. The woman’s hair had escaped the confines of its ermine hood to fall in long, picturesque tresses around a perfect face. Even with her mesmeric green eyes closed, her presence was still spellbinding: the crew moved aside from where they had stood gazing in wonder upon such a startling sight: a woman wrapped in seemingly peaceful sleep amidst carnage and nightmare, rosebud mouth slightly parted and curved in a provocative bow of a smile. All that marred her beauty was a livid patch at the angle of the jaw. This, then, was the woman who had started the conflict, the one the barbarian king had chosen over their own, their Swan. Seeing her lying there in all her vulnerable glory, none of them could blame the man. She was, truly, the Rose of the World.
Tycho Issian stumbled forward, fell to his knees. His heart clenched like the muscle it was, a hard, jolting contraction which rippled through his chest. He thought he might die; but to die so, gazing upon that face, was to die in bliss.
‘My lady,’ he whispered.
Her eyes came open, and now his heart turned over and fell away like a dove struck by a hawk.
The Rosa Eldi blinked. She had been in another place, a place which was dark and full of memories. Not her memories, exactly, but familiar all the same. Voices spoke to her, were her. In this ineffable place they existed together, the Three who were One, and More. Now she knew that she was not alone after all. Which was as well: for the state of Elda was parlous already and would be worse. But help, in a raw and primal form, was at hand. She turned her gaze upon the man who stared at her, knowing what must be done. Blood must sometimes be shed, to save a world.
‘I know you,’ she said. ‘I have felt your prayers.’
Her voice thrummed through him like the great vibration of a purring cat; or the distant eruption of a mountain of fire.
‘I am your servant.’
His eyes bored into her, rapt; unresisting. She could burn him, break him; use him as she would. Her smile widened. ‘Your name?’
‘Tycho Issian, my lady. I am the Lord of Cantara.’
‘And where would Cantara lie?’
‘To the farthest south of Istria, bordering the desertlands, my lady.’
The wide green eyes flared briefly. ‘And can you see the Red Peak from there, my lord of Cantara?’
‘On a clear day, my lady, one may spy its vapours from the towers of my castle and sniff a hint of sulphur on the air.’
Now she sat upright, smoothing down the great fur hood so that it fell away from her luxuriant golden hair to reveal bare white shoulders, and listened with satisfaction as he inhaled sharply at the sight of her. ‘Excellent. And shall you take me there, Tycho Issian, to your towered castle in the desertlands?’
His name upon her lips was the most powerful spell of all.
‘I shall. Oh, I shall. But first, my rose, I must avenge your honour.’ He held his hand out to her and she took it and stood. Fire ran up his arm, took burning root in his heart. He guided her to the figure bound to the mast and watched as she viewed the man with complete dispassion.
‘Behold this so-called king,’ he declared. ‘Revealed as the wretch he truly is.’
At this, Ravn Asharson’s head came up slowly. His vision was glazed, his mouth agape in agony. At last, he managed to focus on the fact that two figures were standing before him. One he could not see properly, for its bright visage hurt his eyes. So he turned his attention to the other, began to frame words. ‘It is me . . . you fool. Wearing the sorcerer’s illusion still . . .’ He tried to swivel his head to search for the pale man, but they had bound him too well.
The Lord of Cantara regarded him with loathing. ‘You disgust me! Have you no shame, no honour?’
For a moment, it seemed the man’s face flickered and blurred and seemed to subtly change; then he was Ravn Asharson again. Dark eyes fixed themselves mournfully on the woman at Tycho Issian’s side.
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‘Ask her,’ he groaned. ‘She knows the truth.’
The Lord of Cantara turned to the Rosa Eldi. ‘Is this the man who stole you away?’
‘Ah yes,’ she breathed. ‘That is him, the thief.’
‘Please,’ whispered Rui Finco, the blood loss making him close to fainting. ‘Look at me: you saw through the magic, you said it – tell him, for Falla’s sake—’
With a bellow of rage, Tycho Issian leapt at him. ‘How dare you look at her so?’ Gouging fingers buried themselves in the bound man’s face. There was a squelching sound, a terrible cry, then clear liquid spurted.
‘By Falla, how well can you see now?’ Tycho Issian howled. He held out two vile objects, making a triumphant circuit around the maimed figure, oblivious to the disgust of his crew, who backed away as if to distance themselves from this sacrilegious act. It was not so many generations since the Istrians had had a ruler of their own, an emperor, a man of royal blood, ordained by the gods. To see a man of rank thus treated went against every notion of chivalry their ancestors had owned and passed down to them. The Goddess would surely strike down the man who did such deeds in her name.
But Tycho Issian was beside himself now, almost dancing with glee. ‘Can you see the error of your ways?’ he taunted, waving the gory eyeballs in front of the blinded man. ‘No? Have you nothing more to say; no apology to make to this rose you have so foully plucked?’ He looked down at the revolting things he held in his hands, then tossed them out into the sea.
‘I . . . am . . . not . . . the . . . King of . . . Eyra . . .’ the figure panted, tears of blood streaking his once-handsome face.
‘No,’ hissed his enemy. ‘You are a worm, a rutting worm who has dared to defile my rose.’
‘My lord,’ the chirurgeon intervened. ‘Enough—’
‘Enough?’
‘He is dying, my lord. Let him leave this world with some grace—’
This last suggestion was cut brutally short. Tycho Issian stabbed the impertinent doctor once through the throat, kicked his jerking body aside, and buried his tainted blade in the torso of the chained man, ripping downward with all his might. With a hot gush, the man’s intestines flooded out onto the deck, rope after glistening rope of them, and then the mad lord cast his sword aside and gripped them with his own hands, hauling, cursing, his feet slipping in all the blood and viscera.