by Roland Green
Then Eskaia’s greatest danger was being trampled to death before she could free herself. She finally rolled desperately, tearing her gown free of the shatang. As she staggered to her feet, she hoped she had not torn it entirely free of her body as well.
Then two hands large enough to belong to a minotaur gripped Eskaia under the shoulders and heaved her upward. She flew through the air, until four smaller hands caught her and lowered her to the next deck stern ward.
She gripped the nearest solid objects, not caring whether they were animate or inanimate, or even minotaur or human. She would not fall down in a faint over a mere narrow escape from capture or death by minotaurs. She would save that for something serious, such as a proposal of marriage or being with child.
One immodest thought led to another-how much was left of her gown? She had the undeniable sensation of breezes blowing on places that should not have been exposed to breezes. Before she could look down, someone behind her reached over her shoulder and handed her a sailor’s cloak. It was large enough to make a tent for two women her size, but it certainly satisfied all possible requirements of modesty.
It did not, however, satisfy the requirements of mobility. It dragged on the deck, and on her third step Eskaia stumbled over the heavy wool. She would have fallen if one of those large hands hadn’t held her up.
“Grimsoar?”
“What would Haimya and Pirvan say if you were killed? Compared to them, minotaurs are a trifle.”
He tried to keep her turned away from the ship’s waist, but she looked anyway. She counted more than twenty bodies, human and minotaur, and could not find a stretch of unbloodied deck larger than a man’s hand. Two of the ship’s boys lay dead beside their overturned sand buckets, one impaled on a shatang, the other with his head split-
“Excuse me.”
Eskaia gripped her dignity for a few moments longer, then dashed for the side. She almost reached it. Grimsoar waited until her stomach was empty, then offered her a clean cloth dipped in clean water-something, she suspected, by now almost as precious as healing potion.
That brought Tarothin back to her mind.
“We have to begin the healing work. Are the minotaurs driven off? Is Tarothin safe? Where is he? Is there any more healing potion? I need a new gown before I can-”
Grimsoar pointed over the side. Both minotaur ships now rested on their oars just out of bowshot. The sides of the one that had rammed Golden Cup was smeared with blood and seemed to be lower in the water.
“They’ll be back. They’ve left bodies aboard, and they can’t do that without losing honor.”
“Suppose we threw the bodies-?”
Grimsoar said something that shocked even Eskaia’s newly hardened ears. “Then they’ll fight to the death, and if they capture anybody, they’ll torture him to death. Don’t even think that again. They might have a mage aboard, as witness, and some minotaur mages can read thoughts.”
“Then let me find Tarothin, and we can try to heal any who are still alive. After we’ve done the work with our own-”
“No time for that. The lookouts have sighted two more ships approaching. One’s too far off to identify, but the one in the lead is minotaur-rigged.”
Eskaia wished she knew ail of Grimsoar’s words and a few more besides, preferably in the minotaur tongue so that she could curse them and be understood by even the meanest rower among them That wish might not be granted. What could she hope for?
“Very well. If we have to treat the bodies honorably, let us drag them off the open deck. They will not be the better for being trodden on by their comrades. Nor will we be the better for stumbling over them.
“Any who survive can be healed when we have leisure. But none will survive if they must endure another battle-”
“Aye, aye, Captain Eskaia,” Grimsoar said, in chorus with Kurulus. The mate had joined them during Eskaia’s outburst.
“If you are mocking-” Eskaia began.
“Your pardon,” Kurulus said, and his stricken tone told her that he was sincere. “You are wise and honorable, and we will do as you suggest.”
“Thank you,” Eskaia said. She hoped they would do it without her watching. She needed to sit down, drink something (even water), and change her gown. The dignity of House Encuintras, as well as her own, required that last measure.
Chapter 18
Haimya led Pirvan across the rain-swollen stream with the same finished skill as he had used in contriving their way down the cliff. When they finished the crossing, they were no wetter than they had been, as this was impossible. More serious, they had hardly a dry article of clothing or a bite of food that had not turned to a dog’s breakfast.
“We can steal food and clothing if need be,” Haimya said. “But Kiri-Jolith grant that we can see to our weapons before much longer. I do not care to approach an enemy’s camp with a sword that may be rusted into its scabbard before it comes time to draw it.”
Indeed, Pirvan had begun to weigh the merits of an alternative course of action: Summon Hipparan, ride him into the enemy’s stronghold, snatch Gerik Ginfrayson, and fly beyond the reach of Synsaga’s men, the mage’s spells or the black dragon.
It was much easier-except that it offered not much more chance of success than a stealthy approach on foot, as well as risking Hipparan’s life against both magic and the brute strength of an evil dragon not improbably stronger and shrewder than he was. That was more than Pirvan could in good conscience ask of Hipparan, unless for a much better reason than letting him and Haimya cover the last few miles of their journey dryshod.
Sodden as they were, the packs weighed even more, and it was good fortune that the ground beyond the stream was all downhill and much of it easy going as well. It might prove still better fortune that the firelighters in their packs seemed uninjured. Now all they needed was something dry to burn, a safe place to light the fire, and time to use the heat to dry everything they possessed, from the skin out.
Failing all of these things, they kept marching.
The smell of woodsmoke warned them long before they saw the fire, and they saw the fire long before they saw the silhouettes around it. Creeping close, they saw that the silhouettes were human, and heard speech in Common with half a score of accents.
Creeping closer, they listened.
“-a tree spirit. Had to be,” one man said. “Just the tree there one moment, the next moment the woman leaping out of it at me. No footprints either.”
“An army of giant ogres wouldn’t have left tracks, not in this rain,” somebody else said. “Proves not a thing.”
“No, it proves one thing,” a third man said, in a voice that seemed to carry authority. “Synsaga’s not the man he used to be. Why would he leave old hands like us out in the rain, facing who knows what, while letting people like that Istarian play lapdog to Fustiar?”
Somebody suggested that being so close to the mage was maybe not much of a privilege, and drew a chorus of agreement. Somebody else added that the Istarian had, after all, sworn the true oath to Synsaga.
“A year ago,” the voice of authority said. “A year ago, and him a captive for no more than two months before that. I’ve served Synsaga ten years, and where am I?”
“There was the king who had a tame sea troll,” another voice put in. “After ten years he asked the king for a promotion. The king told him that after ten years, he was still a sea troll.”
Pirvan expected-indeed hoped-that the next sound they heard would be a brawl, as the insulted man took his vengeance in blood. Instead he heard a stifled whimper from Haimya, and then loud, raucous laughter.
“Think you can draw me into a fight for my place, Gilsher?” he asked. “I’ll play games by your rules when that Istarian lapdog rides the dragon!”
After that, everybody seemed to talk at once. Pirvan listened, trying to draw some sense out of the babble, but he heard little except tales of battles and bawdy encounters. They made enough noise that he could not have heard much from Hai
mya unless she had come up and spoken into his ear.
So it was a surprise, when it came time to turn and slip away, to find himself alone.
* * * * *
Jemar the Fair had been in Windsword’s prow since first light. He would gladly have watched from the masthead, but for knowing that he would pay the price by being too weary to fight when battle was joined.
At dawn one could have said “if.” Now it was definitely “when.” The minotaur ship fled before Windsword at a pace that had to be wearying its rowers. The ship had been moving under full sail even as Windsword’s crewmen had sighted it, then wheeled sharply around to the south and fled under both sail and oars.
Windsword was lighter and faster; minotaur ships had to be stoutly built simply to carry their crews. Jemar’s ship had slowly gained on its quarry all morning. Meanwhile, the signal to the other four ships in the line had been to continue their search. Minotaurs seldom went to war in a single ship; the fleeing vessel might be doing so as a stratagem to draw Windsword away from its comrades, who even now might be closing in on Golden Cup.
To make his ship grow wings and fly, or even give his men the strength of ogres for a day, Jemar the Fair would have struck any bargain with any being, human or otherwise, who could grant him such gifts. As it was, he could only peer ahead across the sun-dappled sea, watching the minotaur ship grow larger with a slowness that prickled like fleas under armor.
Even if they caught the ship, he reminded himself, there would most likely still be a hard fight. He had no authority to order the minotaurs out of these waters, and even if he had, they would not go without a battle. But he was confident that his seasoned fighters could overcome any reasonable number of minotaurs without offending anybody’s honor.
Then it would be time to ask a few questions about the reasons for the presence of minotaurs on this coast, their strength, any other peaceful ships that might have fallen into their net.…
“Deck ahoy! Three ships, two points off the port bow.”
Jemar cupped his hands to reach the masthead with his reply. “Three ships, you say?”
“Aye, Captain. Can’t say what kind, for now.”
Jemar nibbled his lower lip. He wanted to bite hard enough to draw blood. Keep after the minotaur ship, overhaul it, and go on as he’d planned all day? Or gamble that these three ships might include Golden Cup, go about and head that way?
If he broke off the pursuit, the minotaur ship ahead would undoubtedly escape, to continue a career of havoc among the peaceful shipping routes. But if he allowed the ship to draw him away from the others, and one of them was Golden Cup, in danger …
In such case, Lady Eskaia’s blood would be on his hands, and though she might be dead already, he would always hear her death cries at night, until his eyes closed for the last time. He might be throwing away a certain gain for only a possible one, but gambling took on a different color when the stakes were human lives.
A ship’s boy ran aft, with orders to the helmsman. Sailors heaved the sails about, the beat of the oars changed, and everyone not rowing, steering, or hauling on lines began to break out the arms chests.
Jemar had armored himself with brass-studded leather jack, silvered, open-faced helm with its plume of scarlet-dyed sea gull feathers, cutlass, and dagger, when the lookout hailed the deck again.
“Captain, it’s three ships, all right. Two of them look minotaur-built.”
For a moment, Jemar’s throat was too dry to let him speak. Before he could-
“Hoaaa!” the lookout squalled. “The third one’s big, and she’s dismasted. Looks like Golden Cup.”
Jemar did not kneel in prayer. He knelt because his knees, briefly, would not support him. However, he let it be known that he had prayed to Habbakuk for an honorable victory, and no one was the wiser.
No one was the happier, either, for seeing the pursued minotaur ship turn about and become the pursuer. The wind was now on Windsword’s best point of sailing, however, and Jemar could rest half his rowers and still keep his distance from the minotaurs.
What might happen when all five ships were together depended very much on what had happened aboard Golden Cup. If it was holding strongly against the minotaur attack, Jemar’s help might turn the battle.
If it was already a prize, however, Jemar knew he might have a busy time saving himself and his ship from three minotaur vessels. The odds would be long, until the rest of his own ships understood that he’d been gone to the south far too long and came in search of him-or of vengeance for both him and Golden Cup.
Life would be simpler and merrier, Jemar decided, if Windsword could reach Golden Cup in time to make all that extra work unnecessary.
* * * * *
Pirvan could not remember ever having been so frightened in his life as when he saw that Haimya was missing.
No, he reminded himself, you were at least as frightened when you thought the sea naga had taken her.
There would be no sea nagas in this jungle, but otherwise it was no easy guess what had become of Haimya. She might have taken a wrong turn, encountered a silent menace such as a poisonous snake, or been ambushed and captured by sentries set out beyond the circle of firelight.
Reluctantly, Pirvan also considered that she might have been tried beyond endurance by hearing of the mysterious Istarian. Or perhaps not so mysterious-if the man was not Gerik Ginfrayson, then Synsaga was holding two Istarian captives.
Two Istarian captives-one of whom had turned his coat. That could hardly be doubted, with all the men had said.
No, believing in coincidence was often soothing, but seldom wise. Haimya’s betrothed had sworn oath to Synsaga, and even worse, was now in the confidence of the man’s pet mage (though the mage doubtless considered Synsaga his “pet pirate”).
At least he was alive and fit. But rescuing a man who did not care to be rescued, who might think he was better off where he was, who might betray his would-be rescuers to Synsaga …
Pirvan shuddered and thought that perhaps he now had sufficient cause to summon Hipparan. But the copper dragon could not aid the search for Haimya without alerting every man in Synsaga’s camp and ships. So far, even the fallen sentries seemed to suspect little, except perhaps evil creatures of the jungle (and Pirvan found these easy to believe in). The advent of a dragon would be another matter.
He would wait for Haimya’s return before he summoned Hipparan, and he would wait here. Even if Haimya wished to be found, they might well lose each other if he moved into the jungle. Also, if she had been captured, sooner or later she would be brought to the camp. Then Pirvan would know how matters stood, and do his best to give her a quicker and cleaner death, if nothing more.
Pirvan shifted to a tree that was thick enough to generously guard his back. There he unslung his pack, drew fallen branches under him until he was at least not sitting directly in the mud, and did his best to relax. He could see to three sides, his dagger was in his hand, and he could at least guard what little remained of his strength.…
Someone was approaching. Without opening his eyes, Pirvan rolled away from the footsteps, sprang to his feet, and aimed both free hand and dagger hand entirely by sound.
He halted the dagger’s thrust only when he felt hair finer than any man’s, as well as a smooth chin. He opened his eyes to see Haimya standing before him, arms at her sides. He stepped back, she put her hands over her face, then she crumpled like a puppet with cut strings.
Pirvan caught her so that she did not sprawl in the mud, took off her pack, then leaned her back against the tree. Soon after that, he found himself holding her hand and wrapping his free arm around her shoulders.
She did not weep loudly, from either self-command or fear of arousing the camp. But long shudders went through her, and tears streamed down her face no matter how hard she tried to squeeze her eyes shut.
Even if they’d been farther from the enemy, Pirvan had nothing to say that wouldn’t sound ludicrous or insult Haimya’s intelligence.
If he could not lighten any of her other burdens, he could at least not add those.
They sat there under the tree until the campfire glowed more brightly, in a sinister twilight as clouds crept over the jungle. No rain fell, and Haimya finally spoke.
“Pirvan-”
“I will hear it if you must say it. You owe me nothing.”
She stroked his cheek. “On the contrary. I owe you much for your silence. You-you did not judge me.”
“Keeping my tongue out of other people’s troubles seems to be the one lawful skill I have,” Pirvan said with a shrug. “Also, we need not assume the worst about Gerik until we know the truth from his own mouth.”
“How are we to do that? The dragon-”
“Hipparan or the black?”
“The black dragon-he will strike at Hipparan the moment our friend appears. But without his aid, how are we to reach Gerik and take him with us, if he has gone over to evil?”
“Synsaga may not be wholly evil-”
“Synsaga is not Gerik’s new master, if the men are to be believed.” Haimya realized that she’d raised her voice, took a deep breath, and continued in a whisper.
“If he follows the mage, I cannot imagine him leaving the man to return with us. Even if he wished to, the mage would not allow it. He would summon the black dragon and make an end to all three of us.”
To Pirvan, this did not seem to suggest any particular course of action, other than continuing to do without Hipparan. Haimya did not seem likely to welcome a statement of the obvious, however.
After a long silence, Haimya shook her head and finger-combed her hair. That made it look more rather than less chaotic, but the gesture seemed to give her strength.
“I will not abandon Gerik over what pirates mutter around a campfire. I will trust his honor, to speak the truth and allow us to go free, insofar as that is in his power. If the mage proves treacherous, then we summon Hipparan.”