by David Mason
“There’s a strange whiff below there,” Kavin said, moving toward the rail. He grinned. “It must have been a queer mixture of cargoes that this ship held last.”
“Best not to ask,” Hugon said. “One thing is plain enough; what passes for a bed down there was never meant for human bones. Fraak liked those bunks well enough, but he’s not as fragile as I am.” He groaned, and stretched. “I’d sell my honor for a night in a real bed, even a night alone in one.”
“If you could find a buyer for honor,” Zamor grunted.
“If I had it to sell,” Hugon answered. “Ha! Look there! Sails!”
Zamor peered, and uttered a low curse. “We’ll have no chance at all to let blood with them,” he muttered.
“None,” Hugon agreed, “I’m glad to say. The rebel admiral, our friend Farzakk, upon whose head the sea-god should send a special protection, made that absolutely clear. We are to slip by, with the light footed discretion of a virgin in peril of her purity, avoiding all combat as a virgin should. Thus, our vessel’s name will be kept honored,” and he rolled his eyes upward.
“I want to try my Steel Moon again,” Zamor said, and twirled the axe slowly around and around.
“Kindly remember, friend, there’s little room to dodge,” Hugon said, moving back. “Could you arrange for that Moon of yours to suffer eclipse for a while? There’ll be ample chance of blood once we’re ashore in Mazain. I ask the gods that the blood should be somebody else’s, only that.”
The distant sails were taking shape now; swift galleys, single bankers in a broad half circle ahead, at least twenty of them. But behind, a line of what could only be two and three banked ships, from their size, massive and huge hulls filled with armed men, on whose decks weapons bristled. There would be arrow engines that could spit a death storm of shafts; catapults, to hurl round stones, or firepots and dolphin throwers, that could cast a gigantic fish-shaped metal bolt up and over, to crash through a ship’s keel.
Trumpets blared nearby, and were echoed by others farther away. The ships of the rebel fleet moved into a new pattern, one planned much earlier by the cunning of Farzakk. The huge galleons turned, one this way, another that, moving out toward the wings of the Imperial line. It was entirely against tradition; it was usual for fleets to encounter, line upon line. For a fleet to thus open its center, and permit an enemy to enter its midst, must have seemed clumsy foolishness to the Imperial commanders.
It was a long, slow, stately movement, this sea-fighting. Hugon, watching, found it enchanting, but he was a chess player. Zamor muttered and paced the deck impatiently, while Kavin sat, relaxed and impassive.
The apparent errors of Farzakk were not to be ignored; the Imperials lunged forward, like a pack of hounds into a wood. Their line had become a wedge, its point forward, the swifter galleys far ahead. Meanwhile, the Swift Virgin had tacked down away along the outer edge of the whole melee. She was far past her own fleet by now, but it seemed that no Imperial vessel wished to notice so small a prey.
By now Fraak was awake, too; he flew high over the Virgin, returning occasionally with bits of news. However, much of what happened was clearly visible, even from the distance.
Like hounds the galleys had come, and now they were hounds in a wood, encircled by leopards that they had not expected. Each galley found itself drawn off alone, and swiftly set upon, in a series of actions that had obviously been most carefully planned. As soon as a galley was cut off, two or three rebel ships would turn toward it, and come slashing down on either side, reaping a harvest of broken oars. The wind was with the rebels; their own galleys sailed.
Then, the attackers would claw the victim between them; a ship grappled at either side, and often a third to aid them, and a roaring horde of swordsmen poured into the doomed ship. But, again and again, as soon as the armed men had boarded, the rebel ship would swiftly draw away, and turn to a new engagement, leaving those she had sent to fight on.
Hugon, soon enough, caught the sense of it. The Imperials outnumbered the rebels in ships; yet, by this means, they were repeatedly outnumbered themselves. And the rebel ships had been packed, shoulder to shoulder, with fighters; though dangerously overloaded, none had been swamped. Yet, that had allowed them to hurl a mass of men into one ship after another, as they had been doing. The maneuver allowed boarders no chance to retreat to their own decks, but to many of these desperate men, that mattered not at all. Here and there a galley testified to the success of the method, as the ship turned to fight beside its recent enemies, taken over by its boarders.
But now the heavier Imperial ships should have been able to plunge into the conflict. They lay, turning slowly, in a disorganized mass like penned cattle; unable to charge, ram, and board as they should have done, because the cannon of the galleons were well able to pound them to matchwood first. Two that had tried to charge lay burning in the water southward, and a third was already gone.
Among the others, chaos increased; their lighter and fewer cannon were intended only to fire at close ranges, and were useless now. Nor could catapults and firepots help much. Slowly, the huge galleons edged closer, turning in a stately dance; as each side came about, the cannon thundered. A sheet of orange flame swept across the Imperial ships, and death shrieked about their falling masts.
The thunder of the guns was fainter now, like the rumble of a distant storm, as the Virgin sped onward. The men on her deck could see only a low cloud of drifting smoke behind them; the rumble of broadsides seemed less frequent, as well. It was likely that other rebel ships, having made their first victories, were flocking in toward the doomed fleet, to board, ram, and burn. There would be little mercy there, in the cold sea, either from the sea’s grip or man’s weapons.
The rigging creaked, and the water hissed beneath the Virgin’s keel; seabirds cried hoarsely in the air, where Fraak sailed over the mast top. But on the deck, the group of men stood silent, each watching.
Far astern, a smoke-hazed shape came, moving slowly in their track; a light galley, masts gone, bulwarks broken away, drawing a tangled trail of wreckage as it moved. A few oars still beat, in irregular, wild strokes, like the kicking legs of a dying spider. Zamor straightened, with a hopeful growl, and Hugon dropped the lute at which he had been picking idly, and rose.
But it was obvious that the galley was not pursuing them; it had simply blundered out of the slaughter, like a dumb beast, to prolong its life by a few more minutes. They saw it, trailing smoke as it came, listing more and more, till one oar bank lifted clear of the water, and the other must have gone below the water line. The stern lifted, higher, till the distant galley stood for a moment, like a monumental column, straight up; then it dived, and was gone.
“He’s broken them, by the Snake’s teeth,” Zamor said, in a low voice. “That admiral’s a man of his craft. But I still wish we’d been able to take a little of that for ourselves.”
“Never mind, you blood-drinker,” Hugon told him. “We’ll be ashore before dawn, if we’re lucky. You can slay the first fool we meet, and give his liver to the Great Snake. That’s the custom, isn’t it?”
Zamor glanced at him and laughed. “The first fool we meet? Shall I let you off that list, brother?”
Hugon scratched his chin, thoughtfully. “I never thought of that point, brother Zamor. Damn it, I’d best not come with you to your Mumori land after all if they sacrifice fools all of the time.”
“Only during full moon,” Zamor told him calmly. “Fear not, we’ve as many fools in Mumori as you do hereabouts. And we’ll look after you well, little brother; you’ll be a rarity. Most of our own fools are black like myself.” He chuckled, and began to polish Steel Moon with a rag.
Kavin stood at the rail, looking aft; now he turned, and leaned there, his silver-gray hair blowing. He seemed to be deep in thought; his eyes were distant.
Hugon, dropping to a comfortable squat on a coil of rope, had taken up his lute again; he held it on his lap and watched Kavin, thoughtfully.
&n
bsp; The prince seemed to be listening to something. Odd, Hugon thought. To what? Hugon cocked his head, trying to hear if some sound came. A whisper, a voice that was hidden under the sea’s sounds… Hugon was not quite sure.
He plucked a string, tightened it a trifle, still watching Kavin. There was something disquieting about the silence, and the faint moan of the wind did not help. And Hugon felt something. A presence, as though there were another here, on this ship. A faint prickle ran along his back, and his hair seemed to lift a little.
I may be growing unhealthy, with too much seagoing, Hugon thought. A disturbance of the natural elements, perhaps; the salt water about me calls to the aqueous humors of the blood, thinning it, and thereby causing a vapor to arise toward the brain. Thus, a feeling of melancholic discomfort, an illusion of hearing faint voices in the air, and the commencement of superstitious fears. And the remedy, Hugon thought; solid ground under foot, a decent horse between the legs, and such other simple cures as might occur. A masterly diagnosis, he told himself.
He tried a chord or two, and sang a line, half remembered.
“Come to the window, sweet maid, come and see,
Where I wait…”
A very old song, Hugon knew, though he could not guess how old. He dimly remembered various versions of it, sung by one or another, back in the dales where he was born. Some versions were sweetly romantic, others bawdy. But all of them had a common theme, and were intended to be sung back and forth, by a girl and her lover.
He sang another line, softly, feeling his way through the fragmented memory of the words. Then he heard the other voice. It was faint, distant, and without direction, but clear… a woman’s voice.
“Go from the window, fair rider, go far,
For I shall not fly down, neither shall I come see…”
Automatically, Hugon’s fingers took the chord line; but his eyes were wide and staring, and he felt an icy chill. The voice sang the answering lines, and Hugon replied; and again, in chorus with his own voice, the invisible singer joined him. Fraak still circled high over the mast; and that voice could never be the dragonet’s, in any case.
For a moment, Zamor had listened, his broad face smiling; he liked Hugon’s ballads. But then it suddenly dawned upon him that a second voice had entered. He snapped to an erect stand and his fist gripped the axe, lifting it, as he stared around the deck.
“Hold!” Zamor roared; and the song ceased, cut off in mid line. The big man glared at Hugon. “Have you two voices in your throat, brother?”
“No,” Hugon said, in a shaken voice.
“There’s an invisible demon here, then,” Zamor said. “I thought I heard… have you a woman hidden aboard, you lecher?”
“Now where would I hide one, tell me?” Hugon countered. “I heard her too, Zamor. But she hadn’t the sound of any demon.” He turned his head. “Are you there, girl?”
There was no answer.
“Frightened her off with your roaring, Zamor,” Hugon said reproachfully. “A sea ghost, it might be…”
“No sea ghost,” Kavin said, from where he leaned on the rail.
Hugon stared at the prince. “Oho, cousin,” he said, at last. “I begin to remember a part of that tale about you, now.”
Kavin nodded. “The tale was true enough,” he said. “I have known that I have… a companion, who cannot be seen. But she is neither a ghost nor a demon, and you will take no harm from her, my word on it. As to what she is… you know as much as you’ll ever know, at this moment, and that’s not much less than I do.”
Zamor stared at both of them. “The pair of you are mad, I think,” he said, glumly. “Spirits, ha! Since I came south, among you pale folk, I’ve never seen so much superstition. I’m growing infected with it myself.” He stared around the deck, darkly. “If I find there’s been one of those cheapjack tricks you like so well, Hugon, I’ll…” He looked grim.
Fraak came circling in, to land on a bulwark; he carried a large flat fish in one claw, delicately, though it still kicked.
“I brought a fish,” Fraak announced, unnecessarily. He held it up, balancing himself, toward Hugon. “For you.”
Hugon chuckled. “Thank you, Fraak,” he said, and took the creature. “It’ll make a fine dinner. You are a great hunter, little friend.” At which Fraak preened, his snaky tail curving up and around him. Suddenly he opened his golden eyes wide, and stared around, as if remembering something.
“Where is the pretty lady?” he asked.
There was a silence. Finally, Hugon asked, as calmly as he could, “The pretty lady? Ah, yes. Did you… ah, see her clearly, Fraak? What did she look like?”
“She had long, long hair,” Fraak said, confidently. “She waved at me. I like her.” He chuckled, and settled his wings around him. “She had no clothes on,” he added. Then he hopped down, to the deck, ambling toward a dry spot below to sleep.
“Long hair,” Hugon said. “And of course she wore no clothing. Certainly. What else might one expect? Obviously!” He rose, and picked up the fish, taking out his broad dagger. “Now, friends, I intend to clean this fish,” he said, staring at Kavin and Zamor. “This perfectly ordinary, visible, fish. I’d rather hear as little as possible about less material matters, myself. This fish, now… properly fried, these can be delicious. Let’s speak of fish, and bread, and wine, and good beef…” He stopped, and grinned at the others. “Shall we do that, then?”
“There was a woman,” Zamor said, in a puzzled voice. He glanced at the two others, and his expression was puzzled, and a little distrustful. He grunted, and moved away toward the deck shelter where there was a cooking-hearth of brick. Hugon and Kavin saw him kneeling, cracking small sticks to start a fire. His broad back was turned toward them, and his attitude made his annoyance plain.
“It would seem that dragons have very good eyesight,” Hugon commented, looking at Kavin. His knife slid expertly through the fish, and scales flew.
“Yes,” Kavin said from where he still leaned on the rail. “Do you know, I never knew that Fraak could see…” He stopped. “Listen, cousin. I did not know she was on this ship until the moment at which she whispered to me. Nor do I know how she can go from place to place as she does, nor… what she is, woman, ghost, demon, or illusion of my own mind.” He shrugged. “Nor have I ever wished to know,” he added, with a level look at Hugon. “Cousin, she speaks to very few, and I have reason to know that she wishes not to be spoken of. It would seem that you are truly of my own blood, or she would not have sung.”
Hugon laid the cleaned fish out carefully on a piece of board, and wiped his knife; he nodded, but said nothing.
“There’s no doubt that this young man is your descendant,” Thuramon said; he came, out of the shelter deck, past the squatting form of Zamor, toward the other two. He was carefully wrapping a bundle in oiled canvas as he walked, tying it tightly. “It will probably rain before dawn,” the warlock said, glancing at the sky. “Even my tools sometimes rust.”
Zamor had laid charcoal on the hearth, and it now burned quietly with a blue vapor; he came back to hear Thuramon’s words, and grinned.
“Why not use your arts, Master, to give us one more dry day and a fairer wind?” Zamor asked.
Thuramon stared at him under thick white eyebrows. “And where thought you this wind we now have came from?” he asked. “Such steady wind as this, bearing so toward the coasts, is not common at this time of the year.”
“Now that’s true,” Zamor said, frowning slightly. “Yonder man, steering, told me as much an hour ago, while we were still in sight of the battle. He was certain that the gods favored the rebels greatly, because of that.” Then he laughed. “But I’ve heard such things said before, too often. If a man’s lucky today, then the gods favor him, or a sorcerer’s helping him; and tomorrow, he’s cold meat, the gods having changed their minds. No, I believe what I see. We have been lucky; that should be enough.” He looked at Thuramon. “Perhaps you offered a prayer for a good wind, Master, and
received one. But surely you don’t say you made this wind, as a man might belch one out, so to speak?”
Thuramon said nothing. He turned, and pointed toward the southeast, his fingers twisted in an odd gesture. He pursed his lips, and a faint whistle, a queer little three-noted tune, came out.
Behind Hugon, there was a deep rattle and clap, and he turned to see the sail drooping, loosely, swinging against the mast. The deck slowly came to a level position, as the Virgin slowed. And the sea was assuming an odd, oiled look, he saw.
The crewman at the steering oar called out to the other, across the deck, a rattling Grothan curse; he leaned back and made a gesture, spreading his hands out and letting the oar hang free. The ship was almost stationary now; there was no reason to steer any longer.
“It would not be wise to wait here too long,” Thuramon said, looking at Zamor. “Not even for a demonstration to enlighten the mind of an unbelieving one.” He chuckled, and turned to make that pointing gesture again, and utter the whistled notes in another order.
There was a crack, as the sail filled abruptly, and a whine of wind in the rigging. The steersman snapped hurriedly up out of his relaxed posture; whitecaps appeared on the sea around them as the Virgin seemed to spring forward.
“Hold, hold, Master Thuramon!” Zamor said, staring at the taut sails. “I never said I didn’t believe you, did I? But in the Snake’s name, don’t overdo it and whip up a gale!”
“It will lessen in a moment,” Thuramon said. Hugon gathered up his fish and went forward along the rolling deck; he knelt, wrapping portions of fish in the broad leaves of a sea-plant that drifted in these waters, which he had brought aboard earlier. There were thagga roots in the food-bags, a round, brown-skinned plant grown in the coast Kingdoms, and Hugon placed these in the wrappings as well, with other spices. One by one he laid the wet packets on the charcoal, where they began to steam busily; he stood up, and held to a stanchion against the rolling, admiring his work.