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

by Allan Cole, Chris Bunch

  I sucked in air, and sulfurous as it was, it felt good to my lungs. I looked to the side at the rest of our ships, just as one of the galleys attempted to skitter out of the path of an on-rushing Lycanthian. But either the confusion spell still lingered, or else the oarsmen were not skillful enough, because the Lycanthian ship’s ram struck the galley squarely amidships, crushing its bulwarks and spitting it like a game fish speared by a hunter.

  I heard screams as the galley came clear of the water, hung for a moment, and then the wood ripped free, and the galley rolled sideways, back into the water. The Lycanthian ship’s bow smashed into it, and the ship rode up and over the galley, sending it down into the depths — seamen and Guardswomen alike trying to find something to keep them afloat, but being dragged down by their clothes and armor, or dashed down by the frothing waves.

  I had time for no more and ran toward the bow, shouting for my women to make themselves ready. Sergeant Ismet was close behind me. As I ran, I heard another rumble, and this time knew it was not the seas nor the rocks, but the volcano behind us. Erupt and be damned, I thought. There’s a sword closer in my future than any lava-flow.

  Corais and Polillo were waiting at the heads of their elements. Corais had the tight grin she always wore, a rictus empty of humor. Polillo was humming a tune, which was one of her odd habits. I’d asked her once, after a fight, what song she found so inspiring, and she looked at me in bewilderment and asked if I were feeling poorly, since she had no ear for music, and only sang when she was comfortably drunk and buried in a chorus of other sponges.

  The two protective Lycanthian ships were only about three bowshots away now. Behind them was the Archon’s vessel, and I could clearly distinguish the banner of Symeon and, above it, the twin-headed lions of the Archon. I couldn’t see Cholla Yi’s ship.

  Three galleys struck from out of the gloom and breaking seas, straight for the Archon’s escorts. I saw well-aimed spears and arrows shower the farthest Lycanthian ship’s quarterdeck and she veered aside, her helmsman struck down. Two galleys went alongside the second ship and I saw my Guardswomen swarm up and onto their decks, swords lifting and coming down.

  The first galley was about to do the same to its now-drifting enemy and then the Archon pounced. From nowhere, a line of fire ran straight from his ship, on the water itself, as if shot by an invisible archer. The galley’s bow burst into flame as if it were dry kindling. Gamelan began shouting a spell and the flames died as rapidly as they’d been born — but the Orissan ship lay dead in the water as crewmen and Guardswomen fought to regain control of the craft. Slowly it took on headway once more, and I found myself holding back a cheer, as the galley, undaunted by the burst of flame, hurled itself once more at the heart of the Lycanthian fleet!

  And now the way was clear for our own attack.

  "Your orders?" Polillo waited.

  I considered. The Archon’s ship had great, sagging nets hung from the mast’s lower yards to the bulwarks. There were spearmen poised along the railings, waiting a chance to drive their weapons through the body of any Guardswoman trapped in the nets. I saw archers lining the sides and there were two trebuchets on the foredeck and a derrick rigged from the mizzen mast, the rear mast’s sail struck for battle. I thought I could distinguish, far back on the quarter deck, the figures of Nisou Symeon — and the Archon.

  One of our other ships had come alongside a Lycanthian, bow to stern, and had cast grapnels across. But the thrust of the magic wind was pulling our galley backward and it was wallowing out of control. One of the Lycanthian ship’s derricks swung out over the side, a huge stone held in its net. The net released and the boulder crashed down through the hull of the Orissan galley. There were screams and a gout of water as the impact crushed the ship. Instantly the grapnels were cut away and the Lycanthian bore on, leaving our galley sinking in its wake.

  The Archon’s ship loomed close. They’d seen us, realized their danger and cast a rock from a trebuchet. It splashed down close on our bow, sending a cascade of water over the soldiers in our bows.

  An idea came, and I shouted to Gamelan: "Wizard! Stop me that wind!" He heard, and I saw him begin to weave a new spell.

  I cupped both hands and cried to Stryker on the quarterdeck: "Put us under her bows!"

  Then I seized a bow and quiver from one of my women and slung them over my shoulder.

  I don’t know if he thought me mad, as if I was ordering him to ram the Archon’s ship, but Stryker never wavered and bellowed orders, his voice now coming as a high whine like the seawind. The man at the helm muscled the tiller and Duban — the rowing master — issued his orders . . . and the wind died, Gamelan’s counterspell working . . . and the Archon’s ship’s sails sagged and then flapped in a lull, and the Lycanthian ship began to lose way.

  Our ship arced close alongside the Lycanthian, its side looming high over us and then we were at its bows, our ship’s oars on that side feathering.

  I saw Lycanthian heads above us and spears and arrows arcing down, and we were just under the ship’s bows, and I leaped, seeing nothing except one of the ship’s anchors hanging from its cathead and I had the corroded metal in my arms, and, nails tearing, brought myself up onto it. I stood on one fluke, the anchor swaying on its chain and then reached down, had Ismet’s arm locked in mine and she, too, was on the Lycanthian ship as I saw, beyond her grim helmeted face, our galley fall away, oars thrashing as Stryker fought to bring it alongside once more.

  We were a boarding party of two and there were shouts above and an archer in the bowsprit’s pulpit loosed a shaft that went wild and I had my own bow in hand, an arrow nocked and it hummed away; and the archer flung back his hands as the arrow buried itself in his chest and he fell into the sea.

  There were two other archers beside him, each aiming more carefully than his dead brother, but time was something they’d run out of, as Ismet dropped one, and I, moving in that dream-time underwater battle sense, had no need to hurry, found a shaft, saw as I nocked it the fletchings were perfect, drew and as I had learned, felt the moment when the arrow and bow whispered "loose me" to my soul and that arrow buried itself in the Lycanthian’s throat, and there was no one left in the pulpit and for a moment we were safe — until the Lycanthians on the deck above us found a way to wiggle onto the bulwarks through the netting that now gave us a moment’s cover.

  Stryker’s galley was coming up on us now and then I saw Cholla Yi’s ship coming in at full speed. We’d need all the reinforcements we could get to seize this flagship. I slung the bow and went hand-over-hand up the cable, and found a solid wooden hold and pulled myself up onto the bowsprit.

  Scribe, I will take a moment and mention that here is yet another part of real battle that’s not found in the sagas. The handhold was one of those ports cut in the bow to serve as a jakes. I will make a wager — one of your tunic buttons against all the Antero estates that I stand to inherit — that none of the heroic paintings that have been or will be done of that moment will depict me as I stood, hands covered in shit, Ismet beside me.

  But that didn’t matter, then or later, because leading up from the bowsprit was a heavy cable, the forestay running up about halfway on the forward mast. I had but seconds, as I saw, through the boarding net’s meshes soldiers swarming toward me, spears ready.

  I shouted down to our galley for fire support, but my voice was lost in the wind as it came up once more, Gamelan’s counterspell broken against the Archon’s wind-casting; but there’d been no need, as arrows spat from both Cholla Yi’s and Stryker’s galleys and the soldiers wailed and fell back, their attention diverted.

  We were climbing again, upside down and monkeying up that huge rope toward the mast. The forestay ended just at a tiny platform on the mast which I later learned was called a top, just above the fore yard, and Maranonia was aiding us, for the platform was empty of enemy soldiers. Our swords were out and we spotted the lines holding that boarding net aloft.

  We edged out on the yard, the great
beam that held up the sail, and slashed and slashed again, and the net collapsed on the deck, burying in its folds a handful of archers who’d been aiming up at us. Now the way was open for boarders.

  Stryker’s galley was nosing alongside, tossing in the stormy seas and grapnels were coming up and my women swarming onto the Lycanthian ship. Behind it was Cholla Yi’s galley, its bow full of archers firing into the Archon’s ship.

  Ismet and I took a moment to catch our breath and an arrow whipped past, missing my head by a whisper — its broadhead slashed Ismet’s arm as it buried itself in the mast we clung to. She started to jump, but caught herself even before I could grab her.

  "This is no more a safe haven," she managed, wiping blood from the shallow gash on her arm, then forgetting her wound. "Yet I can’t see the archer who fired this. Let’s move! We’ll settle his account later."

  Yes, I thought, but where? Below, the foredeck was a swarm of fighting men and women and I heard screams and battlecries. I spotted Polillo by the flash of her ax as she parried a spearthrust, and, with her immense strength sent the ax back on a counterstroke, its beak burying in the side of the spearman. No one flinched on either side, nor did anyone cry for nor give quarter. The Lycanthians may have been evil, but by the gods they were brave. I felt in my bones that this day’s fighting, even if it were not for the ultimate fate of our city, would live long in legend. There is no glory in battle if your enemy is craven.

  Over the battlesounds I heard that terrible rumbling once more from the nearby volcanoes.

  We could have gone down the shroudlines into the battle, but there was more that should be done. There was a solid wall of soldiery across the deck, just back of the mainmast, keeping our boarders from reaching the ultimate target. On the quarterdeck, the last Archon stood in plain view, just behind the Lycanthian helmsman. Until he was taken, we were but killing cubs and leaving the wolf unharmed.

  In front of the Archon were two open dull black chests, and he was taking things from them and casting them to the winds, sending a frenzy of spells against us. It hurt my eyes to look at him and I forced them away, to see Nisou Symeon. I knew him well, even though we’d never met before, from his slender form to the blonde hair that fell in waves to his shoulders to the slender blade in his hand to the scars that Janos Greycloak’s sorcery had marked his once-beautiful face for the monster’s countenance it truly was.

  I became something other than Captain Rali Antero of the Maranon Guard. My blade flicked and a line that led from where we stood to the mainmast, was cut free and in my hand as my sword snaked back into its sheath — and I was off, swinging across, seeing the main yard coming up and hitting it with my feet, about to rebound, and then dropping the rope to find haven, all a-scramble, on the yard.

  I could not allow myself even a moment to consider the stupidity of what I was doing, or the awful fall that would await if I slipped to crash down either on the deck below or worse, to fall and be ground between Stryker’s galley and the Archon’s ship. I chanced a glance below. No one was heeding us, concentrating instead on the battle on the foredeck, including Nisou Symeon.

  Then I saw, and I froze just like a rabbit, pinned by the gaze of the hawk, the Archon look up, scanning the masts. A line of Gamelan’s spell crossed my mind, "The hawk hunts high . . . the ferret moves not . . . " but I dared not even mouth the words. Once, twice, that icy stare crossed me, but passed on and I hoped Gamelan’s protection still reached me. But I couldn’t rely on magic.

  I saw Ismet cutting free a line for herself, back on the foremast — but my business with Nisou Symeon and his master could not wait for support. Again, I found a bracing line that led from this main mast to the mizzen mast, and swarmed across it.

  Now, just below me, were the Archon and Symeon. There were only two soldiers guarding them, plus a couple of ship’s officers and the helmsmen.

  I realize the telling of the events from the time we jumped from our galley until I stood above Orissa’s most deadly enemy makes it sound as if it was a leisurely undertaking and much time passed. So it seemed to my mind, but in fact, there could have been no more than four turnings of the minute-glass.

  The way down couldn’t have been easier — the lines to the rigged derrick dangled and I went down them as quickly and easily as if I were on a training ground. I let go the line when I was ten feet above the men, and free fell, landing just behind Nisou Symeon.

  He spun, his mouth gaping, but his muscles responding as they should, his blade coming up into guard position. I saw one soldier dart forward, spear lunging and my blade brushed it aside and spitted him. I yanked it free, just as Nisou lunged, hoping my own steel would be cumbered. I sidestepped and slashed at him, a clumsy stroke but one that sent him scuttling back. Behind him, I heard the Archon shout and knew I’d have but a moment. But we were in the realm of steel and magic was a slow second.

  Symeon lunged once more and I tried a blade beat, in the hope my stronger sword could shatter his duelist’s blade. But he turned my stroke aside cleverly and I recognized he was not far from a master swordsman himself.

  I managed to flick my point across his chest, but heard it skitter on steel and knew he wore mail under his black tunic. Now came a brief moment as our blades touched . . . touched . . . touched, then I let my point sag, as if I were not experienced, but before he could take advantage I struck his blade again with the flat of my own, but this time just above the hilt; a tap really, enough to turn his guard — and I struck.

  My sword dug a furrow into his thigh and I saw his mouth twist in pain. He recovered, and lunged in his own turn and I stopped him with a stop-thrust to the wrist.

  Neither of us spoke — in real fights, when blood is the object, there is no time for tongue prattlings.

  His next attack was for my face, no doubt thinking a woman would be more defensive of that area. I but moved my head and his blade missed. I did not let him recover, but struck, point going for where I could see a pulse — in the hollow of his throat.

  I, too, went wide, and for a moment we were breast to breast and I could smell the sweetness of cardamom on his breath.

  He tried a head butt and I jerked mine away and spat in his face as I backleaped clear.

  I remember nodding involuntarily as I returned to guard — Nisou Symeon was a fighter, by the gods. I would remember long the moment of his death and this was truly it. Both of us knew, his eyes flashed wide, then clenched involuntarily at the expected pain as I jump-lunged, coming up, and my blade drove under the edge of his mail and deep into his belly.

  Symeon staggered back and I jerked my sword out and slashed at him before he fell, the keen edge cutting across his throat, nearly severing his head as blood gouted across the deck and I smelt the reek as his guts spilled.

  He collapsed, no longer a man, no longer of concern — and I was turning, back on guard, hearing the cheering of women and realizing they must’ve broken through the Lycanthian line down on the main deck as the sailors saw Symeon die, but my mind paid little heed of that.

  In front of me was the last Archon. Behind him stood the final soldier on the quarter deck, but he mattered not.

  The Archon was the world entire.

  Now the underwater battle time became real, not an illusion of the senses. It was as if I were buried in some thick treacle, or wading in quicksand, the stuff of nightmares.

  "The ferret!" The Archon snarled. And then he hurled his curse at me: "The bitch ferret! Slayer of my brother, draped in deceitful magic not her own. Antero! This time, your line must die, as must all of your works! Die for impiety, die for your arrogance, die for the destruction you carry!

  "Now you will stand, stand you must, and wait your death, and then I shall sweep this ship, and these seas clean of all Orissans. But for you, Antero, the manner of your death shall be most awful, awful as only those who have died as my Chosen Ones can know, to die at your own hand, yet in a manner of my choosing.

  "Do not look for help, bitch ferret. Th
ere is none, none from your sorcerer, none from the sluts you serve with."

  I knew he spoke truth, and everyone else on this ship was as immobile as I.

  "You will meet my gaze now and listen to the orders of my soul," he commanded.

  Slowly, slowly, my eyes crept up, over his bony chest, seeing the wild tangle of his beard and his filed teeth and I could not stop myself and I looked deep into the maelstroms of eyes.

  "Yes the eyes," the Archon said, almost musingly, as if the two of us were in some safe, secluded chamber. "Your eyes. They shall be first.

  “Drop your sword and pluck them out, bitch ferret. You have claws that dig deep. Dig deep, bitch ferret and I grant you permission to scream as you do."

  I felt my grip loosen on my sword, and my hand obediently form talons. But as my hand crept reluctantly toward my face, I felt something and then I was my own woman again . . . and for just a breath, was free of that quicksand spell.

  I had firm hold on my sword again and my clawed hand unclenched.

  It was Gamelan! Or rather his magic.

  "Your ally is better than I thought, but not near enough to stand against me," the Archon said and as he spoke he bent, eyes not leaving mine and his hand dug into an open bag in his chest and cast a handful of dust across the deck toward me.

  Dust became solid became tiny slashing darts. I tried to leap aside, but was mired once more. A thought raced through my mind as I readied myself to die, a thought that made no sense:

  Turn away

  Turn away

  With the wind

  With the storm

  It was as if I’d cast a spell, but it must have been Gamelan’s doing, because the cloud parted and its tiny killing bits sped past on either side.

  The Archon’s gaze flickered, then he recovered. "Die you will, die you must," he said, his voice rising to a near shriek and his hand snaked out and plucked the sword from the hand of the Lycanthian soldier who stood, mazed in horror, beside him.