The Warrior's Tale (The Far Kingdoms, Book 2)

by Allan Cole, Chris Bunch

  There was a jolt as fifty great oars bit deeply into the sea and our galley shot after the spear. We moved with amazing speed, as did the other ships as they cut through the water after us.

  The huzzahs from the shore drowned all else out and I turned to watch first my shore-bound comrades, and then the land itself grow small before my eyes.

  I swayed, but felt Polillo take my elbow. I mumbled protests there were things to be done, orders to be issued, but she shushed me like a child and led me below to tuck me into a hammock. My eyes grew heavier than my will to hold them open. And I slept.

  * * * *

  I dreamed I was in Tries’ arms again. It was the eve of my departure for Lycanth and we’d forgiven one another and had made wild, almost violent love. Now the dawn was near breaking and my head was pillowed on her soft breasts. I knew it was a dream, and that dream lied about the real events — we did not meet, much less embrace those long months ago. But it was a delicious lie and I let it take me where it chose. I kissed her rosebud nipples and caressed those slender thighs until they opened to my hands and lips. I thought I heard Omerye’s music playing very faintly in the distance, telling me this was right. This was where I belonged. This was real life, a place of love and music and scented sighs.

  I heard the crack of a whip, the thunder of hooves and rumble of an iron-wheeled chariot. The wall of our chamber crashed away and I leaped naked from the bed as the Archon rode a black chariot into the room.

  The chariot was edged with sharp-steel spikes and blades and it was drawn by a matched pair of black horses with the broad wings of giant eagles. The shattered room became the deck of our ship and the Archon mocked me from his chariot.

  Cholla Yi and the crew laughed with him, pointing at my bare flesh and scorning me for being a woman who loved another woman. Somehow Tries was the Archon’s captive, and he shook the reins, shouted to the horses and gripped my Tries tight by the manacles that bound her hands. I leaped for them, but it was too late as the horses took flight, carrying the Archon and his chariot high into the sky. I heard Tries scream and a final boom of laughter from the Archon.

  Then . . . nothing. I was . . . awake. Eyes closed. Muscles trembling with the ghost traces of my violent dream. The sound of sea and oars and wind outside. The rough hammock swaying under me. I felt a presence. Danger? Slowly, I opened my eyes.

  Tries stood over me. She was draped in a filmy, billowing white gown. She smiled at me, then her eyes glowed with hatred and I saw she held a slender, silver dagger. She plunged it down at me. I rolled to the side, clumsy in the hammock, and felt the sting of the blade in my arm. Somehow I freed myself from the hammock and plunged to the wooden deck. I heard Tries scrabbling after me. I tried to get up, but I was weary, so weary, I could not move a limb. Then —

  Nothing. Eyes closed. Muscles trembling. Sounds of sea and wind. Hammock swaying under me. I felt a presence. Danger?

  Once again I opened my eyes. Corais grinned. She said: "Sweet dreams, Captain?"

  I groaned up, swinging my legs over the edge of the hammock. "It was more like a dog’s dream of a bad hunt," I said.

  I felt a stinging sensation on my arm. I saw a single drop of blood oozing from a small wound. Dazed, I wiped it away.

  "Some sailor must have lost his sewing needle," Corais said. She ran a hand along the edge of the hammock, searching for it.

  "Yes," I said, with visible relief. "That must be it."

  Corais stared at me, concerned. "What else could it be?" she asked.

  Exactly. It could be nothing else. Otherwise the dream was no dream at all. And that wasn’t possible — was it?

  I rose to greet the new day, and within the hour was so consumed by my strange surroundings, that I forgot the dream and the wound.

  * * * *

  The first order of business was to pick up the spoor of the Archon. I called a meeting aboard Cholla Yi’s flagship. I set it there for two reasons: (1) It had been put to him in plain terms that I was in command. I’d been certain this had been ground into him, almost to the point of humiliation. So, this was a dab of honey to make the aftertaste less bitter. (2) He had a large cabin. If words became heated enough to go to arms, I wanted room to swing my sword. Not that I thought anything like that would happen, but if I needed to put fear into him with a gesture — like gripping the handle of the blade — he’d know there was nothing to impede me, or trip me up.

  As soon as I entered the stateroom, it was plain Cholla Yi made his living as a pirate as well as a mercenary. It was as gaudy and bawdy as a courtesan’s chamber; actually, more like a street whore’s who’d found a rich benefactor. There were wall hangings and rugs so colorful they hurt the eye. It was crammed with all sorts of jewel-encrusted objects whose purpose ranged from pots to squat on to what I swore appeared to be some sort of feathered sex machine, with a handle inlaid with rare stones. Everywhere, veils and lace of the highest quality material, and lowest in obscene decoration, draped shelves, bulkheads, and figurines — many depicting rather gross sexual acts. There were enormous pillows thrown about, also lewdly decorated. There was one particular good one, with two women in an embrace. One looked remarkably like Tries.

  In the center of the cabin was a broad table of dark polished oak. There were leather chairs around the table, with an exceptionally high one at the head of the table. Obviously, it was the Admiral’s. I made my way to it and sat down. There was no sense in making that honey too sweet. Cholla Yi frowned, but I turned this way and that, examining his possessions with complete boredom and superiority. I am my father’s daughter, and although I took up the soldier’s trade, there is enough of a merchant’s wiles in me to turn any ground into my own.

  The Admiral veered to the seat to my right. The ornately-carved gallery window of his cabin was behind it, and he’d be favorably framed by the late afternoon sunlight. Gamelan, however, gave a little hop like a boy, and slid into the seat first. He winked at me, then with much gravity, peered at Cholla Yi’s more lurid figurines, shook his head, then turned his attention to Phocas, the sailing master of Cholla Yi’s flagship, who was unrolling a large map. Rank, as with everything else afloat, was damnably different from what I was used to. For instance, Cholla Yi was an admiral and in charge of all ships. But technically he was the honored guest of Phocas, who held command of the ship itself. Similarly, on our own ship, Stryker was the captain, and under him was Klisura, our own sailing master and Duban, in charge of the rowers.

  What Stryker’s duties consisted of beyond posturing nobly on his quarterdeck and making my life difficult, I wasn’t sure.

  When I saw Phocas’ chart, I immediately forgot the little battle of wills. The quest we were upon seemed unreal when you noted the map’s scale. From Orissa and the Lycanthian peninsula, the map sprawled west more miles than I could have imagined. At the moment it seemed like the kind of distances star seekers must attempt to fathom when they ponder our fates. I’d seen maps like this before in my father’s and Amalric’s studies. But I’d never had to actually place myself on one of them, if you understand my meaning.

  I saw the familiar ports and cities where my family and others traded. But those ports and cities became smaller marks, until they disappeared into cartographer’s speculation — little pictures of fiends to warn of savages, or demons to mark places of supposed ill luck and black magic.

  But it was the sea itself that took my breath away. It was so enormous, that it seemed as if it were ready to swallow the slim slices of land that dared mar its majesty, or the islands that perched so precariously on its brow. The sea stretched west to the edge of the map. There was no land to show the end of it. This was merely as far as anyone — even in handed-down traveler tales — had sailed. The distance was frightening.

  Phocas scratched a mark on the linen — only a finger or so west of Lycanth. No one had to tell me this is where we were — near the eastern most edge of the map.

  "They’ve had nearly two days start on us," Cholla Yi said. "
and favorable seas and wind. But still, they can’t have gone much more than this . . . "

  He laid two fingers against our position. Phocas marked it, then the Admiral stepped aside as he inscribed a circle. Somewhere inside that circle was our enemy. But we didn’t know if we were sailing in exactly the right direction. If we weren’t, the Archon could have changed course and be pulling away from us with every minute that passed.

  "I believe we are safe to say that he’s still fleeing westward for the moment," Gamelan said. "All the spells I’ve cast to increase our speed, or slow his, have been countered by spells that can only come from our old friend. And is from that direction that the ethers are troubled."

  "Then it’s only logical we continue west," I said.

  Phocas laughed. "West takes in a lot," he leered. He gestured across the map. "Most everything you’re lookin’ at’s west."

  "Mind your manners," Cholla Yi snapped.

  Phocas paled. The Admiral was in an angry mood. In the meeting with Jinnah I’d made certain — with the support of Gamelan and the officers sympathetic to me — that Jinnah laid the blame for the Archon’s escape squarely on Cholla Yi. He should have had the harbor mouth blockaded. What’s more, Jinnah had informed him the agreed victory bonus would not be paid until the expedition was completed. Even worse, he and his crew would not be eligible for any shares of the loot from Lycanth until our return. I’d expected him to explode when he heard the last, but he and Jinnah exchanged odd glances, and it seemed Cholla Yi had bit back his temper.

  I wondered if some private arrangement had been made. The most likely, it seemed at the time, was that Jinnah had said he’d compensate him for shouldering the full blame of the failure to capture the Archon. By rights, Jinnah — as the commander of us all — deserved the greatest black mark for the failure.

  Gamelan broke through the tension: "We shall let our enemy resolve our dilemma," he said.

  He took out the black box that contained the talisman of the Archon’s heart.

  Cholla Yi and Phocas stared at the box, nervous. They’d heard rumors of the talisman, but actually seeing a thing of such magical power was more intimidating than whispered speculation.

  "I’ll only require a compass from you," Gamelan said,

  "Pardon?" Cholla Yi gaped like he was just rising from deep waters.

  "A compass, if you please," Gamelan repeated.

  Hastily, one was found. Gamelan placed the box on the circle Phocas had inscribed, and the compass on top of that. Then he waved for silence — as if there was need of warning for these dumb-stricken pirates. There was no prelude to the spell. No chanting — at least not aloud; no calling on the gods for assistance.

  Gamelan stared at the box, his concentration total. His yellow eyes glowed like the sun, and the whole room seemed to be lit by the inner light spilling out. I heard gasps as a low, humming noise began to vibrate the box. Then the box itself glowed. The compass needle jolted. It spun wildly about, once, twice, then as it whirled for the third time, it froze in mid-gyration, as if a hand had stopped it.

  Gamelan drew back. The light faded from his eyes until they were merely that odd yellow. He wiped sweat from his brow, then pointed at the compass’s arrow. It was quivering, as if ready to move on.

  "Follow that," Gamelan said, "and we will find our enemy."

  The compass pointed due west.

  I’m not certain what transpired next. Cholla Yi spoke to me, and I answered whatever question he asked. But everything seemed very dim to me — far away. I found myself staring at the compass needle and vast expanse of the map.

  I could see all the familiar places. Here was Tros, a rich city my family had traded with for generations; then Savia, renowned for its wines; Thurgan, masters of fine blades; and Luangu, with its famous cattle pens that ladder the shore for miles. Beyond was Jeypur, a barbaric, coastal port, where caravans spill in daily, carrying silks and spices and magical rarities from places that would only exist in legend, if we did not know them from their goods; next was Laosia, where the J’hana family controls the market in ivory and that beautiful black wood that’s so hard it can turn aside steel.

  On the opposite coast, I saw Redond, and then the nearly-impassable mountains of the kingdom of Valaroi that girdle the shore; across those mountains is the great desert where wild tribes of horsemen rage. We know them only for their rich carpets and sweet-smelling oils that we burn in our lamps on festive occasions. Still further west was Tiger Bay, named not for the beasts, but for the color and markings of the gems of the shell fish that dwell there and are collected to make the finest fire beads. I knew all those places well, as does any Orissan schoolchild. But past that point, beyond the Jasmine Islands, the Coral Sea, the Ginger River, and the Lemon Coast — all was unknown.

  There is an exhilarating moment, my brother has often said, when all journeys begin in earnest. Before that moment all is foolish speculation; afterward, the journey lapses into mere progress to be marked each day. My brother is a man to be listened to about such things, for there is no one in our history who has traveled farther; although now I may rival him.

  It was that day in Cholla Yi’s stateroom when my adventures truly began. At that instant I knew for certain that before I was through I would see for myself the places on that map. My eyes were drawn to the edge, where all beyond was unknown. And it came to me I would see those places as well. I was not frightened by this vision, Scribe. And as I have promised absolute truth, I must confess that for a short time I had no thought of the Archon and the threat he represented. Instead, I was filled with a great yearning.

  I wanted to know, I had to know the answer to the riddle the map posed — which was, what lies beyond?

  For the first time I understood the blessing — and the curse — of seekers like Janos Greycloak, and yes, my brother, although he will not as yet admit it.

  Confused by the realization of a new side of me — a side I had never expected to exist — I looked at Gamelan. I could not see him clearly for moment: a shadow seemed to fall between us. It was a familiar shadow, and I smelled a familiar scent. I thought I heard a woman whisper. I shook my head and my vision cleared as the shadow was swept away. I saw that Cholla Yi and Phocas were absorbed in planning. But the old wizard was watching me intently.

  "You had a vision?" Gamelan asked.

  I shook my head, no. But there was a smell of sandalwood in the room, and I knew I’d lied.

  * * * *

  We sailed after the Archon, always keeping close watch on the magical compass. When it veered, we changed course. When it came back to the heading, we aped the motion. We didn’t know if the changes were made because our enemy knew we were on his heel, or if it was only the vagaries of his flight. But none doubted the chase was for real. The Archon was out there — that was certain; a few leagues, or a few days ahead.

  The excitement of the chase waned as one day bled into the next, and we got down to the routine of our new lives at sea.

  As time passed, I slowly realized these ships were to be our new battlefield and I knew as little about them as I would, say, about fighting on ice. I set out to become expert, then to see to it my women became the same. Any hour or day — if Te Date please — we might sight the Archon’s ships.

  I found the most boring man aboard ship, who carried the title of master’s mate, which I soon found meant he was a seagoing version of a quartermaster. Except where a quartermaster could send you to sleep prattling about tent ropes and kettles, this man had the opportunity to natter about anything, from ropes to cutlasses, everything in fact except the salt water around us.

  For those who wish to know a bit about the world we found ourselves in, the world we would spend far too long on, some of us the remainder of our lives in fact, here are some details:

  Our galleys were of the type known as "long runners," and were intended, the mate told me pridefully, for anything from going up a river to harrying and conquering a merchant vessel to raiding a seapo
rt to making long sea passages out of sight of land.

  "Course," he confessed, “bein’ shallow draft the ship rolls a bit in any sort of wind or seaway. Matter of fact, a long runner’ll pitch some tied up to a dock, which is why any good galleyman had best have a solid-cast stomach. Or else not need to hold vittles down longer’n the next wave."

  For some reason, men seem to find the cramps of seasickness hilariously funny, but only if it’s shown by someone else. Corais wondered if they’d find the sensation so risesome if they underwent something much the same every 28 days as we did. But I made no response to the mate’s chortles.

  Each galley was about a hundred feet long, and twenty feet wide. It drew only about three feet of water, which accounted for what the mate called its liveliness. There were three officers to each ship, the master, sailing master and rowing master. Under them were other men, also called mates, but they were not considered officers, but rather like our sergeants. Mate was also the title given the ship’s artisans, such as carpenter, sailmaker and so on. Each galley was crewed by 50 rowers, who also doubled as seamen when the captain shouted for all hands to turn to. There were, in addition, fifteen able seamen, who considered themselves elite, and wouldn’t touch an oar if the ship was being driven onto the rocks. Almost any number of soldiers could be carried for a day or so, but under normal peacetime conditions (which I knew meant for Cholla Yi piracy) some 25 marines — soldiers with a modicum of sailor’s training — would be on board as a shock force.

  All the galleys had a weather, or main deck, which was open, and a deck below for sleeping and for bad weather. It took very rough seas to go below, since this deck was dark and cramped. Anyone over five feet walked in a stoop, or rang her skull against the deck overhead like it was a bell. We slept in hammocks, which were taken down each day and stowed, then hung each night wherever we chose, which was on deck for the most part. The upper deck could be shaded in hot weather under canvas awnings, and it was most pleasant to loll under such a brightly-striped tent when the sea-breezes blew, and required real effort to get up and go through yet another set of exercises or sword- or spear-drill.