*
The sun was westering when a man called “Land!”
Immediately he showed how foolish he felt. It was not land he saw.
“Ship!” another man said, and “ship,” another said, and Coon went up the mast faster than a hungry woodpecker.
“Aye!” he called down. “Ship, ship! A ship!” Then, “Hawkship!”
The men on the hawk-prowed ship named Seadancer looked at one another. Some were surprised at Kirrensark’s command, but they did as he bade, donning armor and helms and readying bowstrings while Delath went to unlock the swords and axes stored under the steering platform in the little compartment there. Jarik forced his way forward, with clinks from his dark mail of the god-metal.
“That ship fares from the direction of our goal,” he said, staring at a striped sail too far distant for its colors to be discerned. He could have blotted it from sight with an upraised thumb. Both thumbs were busy; absently he was seeing to the secureness of his belt through its buckling loop. Jarik would not suffer the Black Sword to be taken from him and stored away; Kirrensark avoided arguments with Jarik.
“So it does,” Kirrensark said. “And it comes for us.”
“A ship come looking for us?” A hopeful voice.
“We must be close to land, then.” Another.
“We are well asea,” Seramshule said with a seaman’s wisdom. “How likely that another ship find us, on this largest plain in all the world?”
“How likely that the wind remain unstintingly behind us?” someone asked rhetorically.
“Coon come down!” Kirrensark said. “Tole go up, for you have more experience aloft.”
The other hawkship grew and grew and the sail seemed orange-red. It grew more, until it was discernibly orange striped with crimson. They did not need Tole’s eyes to know that atop its mast something glinted in the afternoon sunlight. A metal mast-head, must be. The two craft drew closer together, and closer, and the plain of the sea seemed less vast.
Coon knew that this was adventure, and he knew excitement. And he knew fear. He had been handed his short-hafted ax. He held it tightly.
“That ship,” Jarik said too thoughtfully, “comes almost directly on our course-path.”
“Yes.” Kirrensark’s voice was tight, muted. “And its sail bellies no less than ours.”
It was then that gooseflesh crawled aboard Seadancer, and crawled over the arms and back of more than one man. Two ships asea and, unlikely, on seeming intersecting courses. Each moved in the direction opposite the other’s direction of movement even while each moved toward the other. Both sailed before wind. And each sail billowed, full of air; bellied out toward the other ship.
“Not … possible,” a man murmured.
“Sorcery,” Grath Redshank said, softly.
“Why is this so?” That from Jilain, never before asea or so much as on a ship.
“The wind blows us straight toward that other ship,” Jarik told her. “And the wind blows that ship straight toward us. That is not possible. It is sorcery. God-power.” Without knowing, he was rubbing the fingertips of his right hand over the seamless cylinder of silver that sheathed his left wrist. “And atop that one’s mast … ”
They stared, feeling the eeriness of it. They saw oars rise along that other vessel; saw their blades drop into the water on either side.
“Kiddensok!” Jarik snapped, and more than one staring man jumped.
They saw the sails reefed on the approaching ship. Sheets down; oars out. And Jarik knew what it was that glinted atop the oncoming mast.
“That craft is not here by chance. It is powered by sorcery or gods. And it is not from Her. The Lady of the Snowmist did not send that ship, Kiddensok!”
“String bows!” Kirrensark snapped, without looking away from the approaching vessel. “Ready oars. Seramshule, Grath — stand by the sail.”
“Jarik — ?”
Jarik squeezed her shoulder without thinking about it. With his hand there on the dark leather, he turned to shout. “Does any man recognize any man on that ship?” Amid replies of “No!” Tole called, “No, but I recognize that fell bird atop her mast!”
Spray flew high from the others’ oars. “They mean to attack,” Delath muttered. “Kirrensark?”
“Weapons ready,” Kirrensark said, “but hold steady.”
“They mean to attack us,” Jarik said, while Jilain looked from him to the approaching craft and back to him. “Those are no friends. One has more control of oars than sail and wind, and men row to the attack. The iron hawk is with them, that killed the dove of Her.”
“Iron?”
“Arrows out,” Kirrensark said. “Nock. Wait now, wait. Wait … The distance is too great.”
“Not for long,” Delath said, and it was almost a snarl. “The Iron Lords,” Jarik muttered to Jilain — and to
Jarik — “or someone, has sent that bird-guided ship full of men to attack us. Consider what we have seen. Doesn’t it appear that the bird flew ahead to find us as well as slay our guiding bird, then returned to guide those men to us? We are not to reach Lokusta.”
Kirrensark glanced at him. “That is not possible, Jarik Blacksword.”
“You are right, Kiddensok. The gull that led us to Kerosyr is also impossible. And the breeze that stayed behind us all the way — going and returning. With perfect weather day and night. The dove that was with us is not possible, either. Neither is it possible that a hawk flew out here, out to sea, and slew that dove, with no attempt to carry it off to eat. That big black hawk itself is impossible, when two of Jilain’s arrows glanced off it!”
“Stop,” Runner murmured. “Oh stop talking so!”
Weapons belts were strapped on. Daggers and swords were loosened in their sheaths; the heads of axes were uncovered so that their evil iron curves were free and glinting.
“Suppose it’s that White Rod they want,” Delath said.
Jarik did not look down at it, or touch it, the wrapped staff of Osyr he had fastened to his belt. Milady Snowmist had sent these others only to convey and to escort Jarik. Jarik She had sent for the staff from the hand of the dead god’s statue. None of them knew why She wanted it. Obviously it was important to Her. And to others?
Jarik said, “What else?”
Chapter Eight
I belong to battle as the heron to the reeds till I give my body back.
— Marge Piercy
The other vessel loomed larger still. Its naked mast seemed trying to pierce the sky, stark without its sail. Now faces could be seen. And the broad, sun-glinting wing-spread at the top of the mast. Bows, too, could be seen. They were strung.
Jilain asked, “What will happen?” and Kirrensark explained.
Volleys of arrows would be exchanged. A ramming would take place or a grappling if possible, if the others did not veer off. Boarding, amid loud yells. The chopping of flesh and bone with ax and sword. Blood splashed and running underfoot with nowhere to go. Dead men. One crew would lose and one would win, while both lost men. He spoke in a dull voice these terrible things, as if he said it all from rote.
Jilain had never heard such. She had never seen such. Now she looked thoughtfully the length of this long broad boat, at the man in the stern, sitting to the right of the steering-oar. Was he the most important man aboard, now?
— Yes.
Jilain looked back at the other ship, and around at the naked blades of axes and the grim faces of their bearers. She saw pale, bone-tight knuckles clutching those hafts of tools never meant for use on wood. And Jilain snatched up her bow.
“Give space, for this one and Jilacla.”
“Here,” Kirrensark said. “We’re not in bow range yet!”
“You do not have Jilacla, either,” Jarik said, suddenly wondering if it was possible. “Give her space.”
“Look there — she’s drawing the string clear back past her ear! Strave? You ever see the like? Seramshule?”
“Weird way to hold a string too, I say. T
hat’s the strangest — huh! Barrenshule? Didn’t you try to pull that bow?”
“A trick — ”
“Shut up.” That from Strave Hot-eye, who received some mean looks.
Jilain opened her right hand and brought it slowly down from her ear. Her striped arrow had whished up, and up. It arced. It plunged in a long graceful trajectory … and it drove into the other vessel’s steering-oar no more than two finger-breadths from the steersman’s hand. Since every man on Seadancer was staring at that, they did not see her release her second shaft, so swiftly following the first. They did however see it appear in the body of the other ship’s steersman.
The man half rose, throwing up his hands. His big oar lurched and struck him. His ship lurched too, as he fell back and the long stern-set oar had its head as a plunging wild stallion.
While men cheered on Seadancer and loudly slapped their thighs, pandemonium seized the other ship. Its noise came across the water, in many voices and conflicting cries and instructions. Pandemonium held that unguided vessel —
And released it. Another man took the steering-oar. Up came his ship’s beaked prow amid a heroic flash of white spray.
Within a minute he was slain by a spirally striped arrow.
“Lady be merciful!” Barrenshule swore softly, and Strave was grinning as if he were somehow responsible for the prowess of Jilain and her Jilacla.
Now an insect cloud seemed to buzz up above the attacker ship. Arrows came keening at Seadancer while shields were erected for the protection of a third steersman. Only one of that covey of shafts reached Seadancer, and it was wavering when it thudded weakly into her side, just above the waterline.
“Huh!” Stirl Elk-runner sneered. “I could do more damage to this ship with a good kick!”
Some of Kirrensark’s men shot, too, but it was too soon. No matter how strong of pull and strongly pulled, Lokustan bows would not bridge the distance with anything approaching accuracy. One man emulated Jilain’s “trick” of turning his hand, so, and pulling past his eye, so, and his bow broke.
“They will be sore fearful over there by now,” Jarik muttered. “They will think it’s sorcery that drives these stripe-wearing staves into their steersm — ”
Jarik broke off. A chill wind blew up his back. He remembered! He had seen this. He had experienced this, and all before ever he sailed with Kirrensark. Before he had seen or thought aught of Guardians or anyone named Jilain of Osyr’s Isle. That night in the keep of the Lady of the Snowmist, when She had tormented him with several real-seeming visions that were not real — that night he had experienced just this scene, this attack! Now he was doubly sure that some at least of his visions showed him the time to come, and there was no happiness in the thought. He remembered …
The sea lapping and gurgling along the sides of the ship he was on. The strange tall short-haired woman aboard among men, clad in armor. Young and comely she was, a warrior woman with a quiver of arrows at her hip. And down on them, blue-black and shining, on moveless wings, came swooping the iron hawk. Using her strange doubly curved bow (quadruply curved bow!), the woman sent an arrow at the attacking bird. Jarik was sure he saw/had seen a spark as the shaft glanced away with a clanking sound. This he had seen nigh a month ago, though Jilain’s hair now was hardly so long as he had seen it then — and even then in the vision she had a new-scabbed cut on her forehead] Jarik remembered that awful vision. Down came the iron hawk, for him …
He had awakened in sweat, in Snowmist’s keep, sure that he was dead; for the bird had dived down and horribly, painfully, bloodily slain him!
Now he went cold and fearful, Jarik of the Black Sword.
Seadancer’s arrows had fallen short and the attackers, in need of any sort of jubilation, shouted taunts and jeers.
Jilain stood alone, though Kirrensark was close by. And Jarik, who stared at her. Delath was storming and snarling, trying to silence the crew. Jilain was carefully checking and re-checking windage; examining an arrow with eye and fingers and fussily plucking a bit of feather at its nock-end; gauging distance and plotting arc with strange sightings along arm and fingers and thumb; plucking her Jilacla as though the bow were a musical instrument.
“Jilain! Lady!” Strave Hot-eye was rushing to her. “Wait! No arrows are better than an archer’s own — but you want these armor-piercers!”
She turned, looked at him, nodded. A frown moved over her face, though, as she took one of the shafts he proffered.
“The lengt’ is about the same; that is easy for one to compensate for. But — this arrow will be end-heavier than one’s own, won’t it? Hmm.”
“Yes,” Strave said, bobbing his head. “Yes, but the problem is, if you make good your shot your arrow may still be wasted, and what’s the good of that?”
She decided, and took his arrow, nocked it, closed her eyes while moving her arms just a little, bobbing the bow, getting the feel of it with this new, heavier-tipped arrow, raising it a trifle, opening her eyes. Jarik watched her and did not know he was biting his lip. Nor was he alone.
“This one for the wooden head on the front end, then,” she said, and Jarik saw her take a deep breath, and hold, this woman who did not even know what to call the foremost end of a ship.
“Wait!” Strave called.
She heeded that interruption. He had seen the wave coming. Seadancer dipped, rose, glided, and Jilain drew and released.
Much noise from the other ship — not coming so fast now, as all stared at the ship they had considered prey — as Strave’s arrow arced and dropped and barely impacted the vessel’s bow. Behind her men groaned.
“Ha!” Jilain called. “Two such arrows, Strave. The same, just the same now, archer!”
“Yes, archer! Right!” he said, grinning, selecting from his quiver.
“Why don’t Strave do something?”
Strave half-turned to face that man. “I am. I am handing arrows to a better archer.” And he did.
Again she checked and gauged, for the distance had changed, and the ships were pushing ripples at each other while their separate winds were beginning to come into conflict. Again she filled her lungs with breath she would hold. Seadancer dipped, began to rise, and Jilain gasped “Perfect!” and she sped off two arrows ere they were atop that little swell. Only Strave saw the slight change in elevation of her bow between the two swift shots, and he too was holding his breath.
Each arrow keened high and screamed down amid shouts and wild waving of arms on the other ship — and then a hush closed over that craft. A third helmsman had been slain by lofted arrows, while crouching behind his bulwark of shields!
While his men cheered and danced, Kirrensark bellowed his command: “A volley! A volley! Loose, loose, loose!”
The big black hawk flashed blue as it launched itself from the enemy mast-top. It drove at Seadancer like a hurled spear. Jarik felt panic grabbing at him in cold, clawed hands: It’s going to kill me. This is the vision, repeated — it’s going to kill me! Somehow his hand was frozen at his side; just at the hilt of the Black Sword. And frozen was the term, for a chill commenced to emanate from his bracers.
The bird swooped, half-wheeled, dived — not at Jarik.
Unerringly it singled out and drove down at its ship’s worst enemy. Jarik could not move. Jilain could, and did. She did not waste an arrow on this unnatural creature or thing, but snatched up the shield she had set aside as useless. Not now. Swiftly she dropped bow and drew sword. Her stroke missed and she was already ducking when she swung it. The bird struck the upper edge of her buckler with a bamm sound, seemed to bounce upward, and was away. Unflapping.
The sound of the impact of the bird had been no less than that of an ax on her buckler.
Men had seen that shield give before the bird’s impact, but Jilain straightened and sword and shield were combatively up. Amid the clamor of both ships’ crews, the hawk swooped and banked to come driving back, all with incredible speed. Even so, it was Kirrensark who moved to effect. It wa
s his big three-quarter moon of an ax head that intersected the creature’s dive at Jilain. A terrible clang accompanied the impact. The great bird was knocked off flight — and swooped up and away with no sign of injury. It glinted indigo and jet in the sky, and neither screamed nor flapped its wings.
Kirrensark stood glaring in astonishment at a badly dented ax head.
“At their ship,” Delath had presence of mind to shout, “Volley!”
With another bluish metallic flash in the sunlight the bird wheeled in air. Again it came driving down. The spread of those extended, moveless wings was equal to the length of Jilain’s sword, which this time struck it before it reached her. Another of those impossibly screeching, unnerving-because-impossible clangs rang loud — and Jilain’s swordblade snapped. The broken off section shot past the bird and off into the water. Already her buckler was whipping up. The bird struck it with a great whump. Wood popped and cracked. Splinters flew. The shield was slammed back against its bearer. The bird’s claws had pierced the shield’s thrice-toughened wood, and it clung. Men stared in horror, seeing the woman’s legs, calves bulging in strain, buckle under the weight of the awful bird of sorcery.
Jilain fell back. Still she was silent; had anyone been aware of eeriness other than this outre attack, he’d have noted the strangeness of this woman in combat and in stress. Never had she uttered a sound.
Jarik did, now. A mad yell tore from him and he interfered as if a volcano had detonated within him. Out came his sword to sweep away and back while he charged. Runner was in his path, and Runner was bowled aside and over as though he had been a mere boy rather than two hundred pounds of ugly blond warrior in forty pounds of helmet and warcoat and weapons belt, bearing a four-pound ax and a shield weighing thirteen more. He went back over a bench with a crash, a snarl, and several curses.
Jarik, with a maniacal cry and a great sideward stroke, slashed. His rushing blade seemed a black stripe drawn in the air.
The Black Sword of the Iron Lords struck the bright-shining black hawk — of the Iron Lords? — and sliced through it. No blood splashed. No entrails flew. The huge bird went flying over ship’s rail in two halves. Each plunged with a sizable splash into the water and, of iron or god-metal, sank in an instant.
The Lady of the Snowmist (War of the Gods on Earth Book 3) Page 9