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

by Allan Cole, Chris Bunch

  Herons cried from among the reeds to the west. I saw one pair circling a clump of rushes, diving close and then away, hooting threats, as if something were after its nest.

  "We’ll have to fight," I told Corais.

  Then I shouted to Stryker: "Signal the Admiral. He is to withdraw at once. We’ll guard the rear."

  No sooner had the flags been hoisted then I heard the high-pitched wail of a thousand voices crying for battle. The canoes speared toward us, King Keehat’s war canoe in front.

  "To the west, Captain," Polillo shouted, and as I feared, a score or more enemy craft skimmed out of hiding to flank us.

  A black cloud of arrows lifted from Keehat’s group, but the range was too great and only a few fell among us, and none struck their mark. We came about and pulled hard away, the rowing master’s drum pounding for full speed. But fast as our galleys were, the canoes were faster and they were quickly closing the gap. There were hard bumps all along the side as the first of the flanking party reached us.

  "Repel boarders," I shouted and Polillo leaped forward with a squad of pikewomen.

  One man was already coming over the side, but Polillo got to him first, her ax swinging down, severing his fingers and he fell away with a terrible scream. There were more cries of pain as her pikewomen thrust and clubbed away.

  I sent archers to the rail just as the second swarm of arrows struck. Once again, none of us fell, and I had the satisfaction of seeing our own shafts plunge into Keehat’s forces. At least nine were hit, one fatally. Ismet led a group of slingwomen back to the quarterdeck and a hail of lead stones smashed among attackers.

  The galley shuddered as we ground across a sandbar and I stumbled. When I came up we’d broken out of the bay, but the canoes were all around us and men were swarming over the sides, swinging swords and clubs. I had time to see that Cholla Yi and the other galleys were speeding for the open sea, then I drew my sword and plunged into the fight.

  I cut my way to Polillo’s side, then together we charged a knot of boarders, Polillo bellowing her war cry. Her ax swept a man away from my back, and I parried a sword thrust, then cut back to spill its owners guts, spun left to hack another man down, then right to catch an attacker under his chin, then left again to kick one man in the groin and thrust my sword into another’s chest. Blood sprayed to blind me, and I cut by instinct until I could clear my sight.

  I saw Gamelan with a heavy staff, swinging wildly all around him, clubbing anyone who came into his reach. Not far from him one of the oarsman swung his own monstrous club with deadly effect.

  Polillo hooted laughter as blood lust overcame her and she plowed into half-a-dozen naked swordsmen. She left them flopping on the deck, with severed limbs and burst skulls.

  Then a stiff breeze caught our sails and the galley surged forward. In a few minutes we were clear, chopping down the last of our attackers and hurling their dead and wounded over the side.

  I ran back to the helmsman’s post and saw the war canoes falling behind us. In the prow of one I could make out Keehat, shaking his staff and urging his men on. There seemed to be hundreds of canoes, with hundreds more pouring out of the bay. Keehat was not going to give up merely because we were out-pacing him.

  I exchanged hasty signals with Cholla Yi. The wind was pressing us west, but we feared to divert too much from our search for a southern route around the reef.

  Cholla Yi attempted a feint. We sped west, putting as much distance between us and the war canoes as we could, then tried a dash south, but as soon as we neared one of the islands, a huge group of war canoes leapt out at us, forcing us west again.

  Again and again, we attempted the same ruse, but each time we were turned back.

  I could sense Keehat’s shamans were magically passing the word from island to island, giving each tribe a chance to ready themselves to attack us.

  As we pushed past one island we entered a sea of debris. Countless trees, timbers, and entire houses bobbed in the current. There were bloated corpses everywhere, farm animals, wild creatures and hundreds of people — men, women and children. It was the aftermath of the great sea quake that had nearly destroyed us, and wrecked much of Keehat’s kingdom. The devastation was an awful answer to any fool who might ask why the king hated us, and why he would go to any lengths to revenge his kingdom.

  As we tried to pick our way through the horror, one of the damaged galleys was hulled by a log lurking just beneath the surface of the water. As it sank, we hauled the crew off. But we weren’t quick enough, because the war canoes were on us again, dodging easily through the flotsam.

  Once again, we were showered with arrows. Once again, a galley was boarded. It was one of the damaged ships, and it was not so lucky as we had been — none of my women were aboard to fight off the attackers.

  We heard the sailors’ screams for mercy, but couldn’t stop to help as we eluded the Keehat’s hordes and fought our way out of the trap.

  After we had made good our escape, I wearily called for Stryker. I told him to signal Cholla Yi and the rest of the fleet.

  As I spoke I could see Keehat and his forces churning steadily along in our wake. Another group was spearing off to one side in case we attempted another dash south.

  We had only one choice: flee west into the open sea, and deeper into the unknown.

  * * * *

  King Keehat pursued us as relentlessly as we had hunted the Archon. For a week we drove onward, sailing, or rowing as fast and as hard as we could. But, soon as we slowed, or came to a stop to rest, or to fish to restore our rapidly dwindling supplies, the war canoes would appear on the horizon.

  The weather was inconsistent, alternating between foggy calms and sudden squalls, so we could never depend on wind-driven speed to carry us far enough and long enough to shake him. Once we thought we had, after nearly two days of non-stop rowing and sailing. We anchored late the second night in a dead calm, too exhausted to go on, but fairly certain we’d escaped.

  We awoke the next morning as his canoes burst out of a fog bank, with Keehat bellowing for our blood. We barely got away in time; even then, one galley was within bowshot and several rowers were killed by the king’s strongest archers.

  Finally, I had enough. I was tired of running, tired of the dark looks my Guardswomen were giving me — all our training and tradition was to confront, not to retreat — and tired of feeling like a small fish trembling in fear of a larger one. Besides, the farther we got from the volcano-reefs, the more certain we were of becoming hopelessly lost.

  I called a meeting: my staff, Cholla Yi and his, and Gamelan. I opened by asking the wizard how he thought Keehat had managed to stay at our heels so long, without ever seeming to tire.

  "Is it his shaman?" I asked. "Has he cast some spell to continuously replenish their strength."

  Gamelan shook his head. "It is not magic," he said. "Spells for such things sap a wizard’s powers. They only work so long as the magician is fresh."

  "Then, what is it?"

  "I suspect it is the milk of those gourds we found," Gamelan said. "Even a small sip, if you recall, seems to stoke the furnaces of both body and mind."

  I did, indeed. We had shared all we had gotten from the floating tree. Reluctantly, still wanting little of magic, I’d duplicated the speaking spell, so that at least some of the others could understand and communicate with any people we might encounter in these waters. And even with so little for each to drink, everyone had remarked how giddy and . . . well they’d felt.

  "I’m certain that with a good supply of that wondrous fruit, the king and his men can keep up this pace,” Gamelan continued. "It also has the side benefit of staving off hunger pangs, so their canoes will be burdened only with their weapons, and water. They can easily keep their bellies from feeling pinched with a little fishing on the run."

  "This is stupid," Polillo growled. "I say we stand and fight. There can’t be more than a few thousand of them."

  Corais had a similar view, although much
cooler and reasoned: "We can play the fog trick on them," she said. "We can charge out, pick off as many as we can, then slip away again. It won’t be long before he shouts ‘enough!’"

  "It’d never work," Phocas said. "The men are too tired."

  "Whiners," Polillo snarled.

  "The smallest mistake could bring disaster," the admiral cautioned. "There’s too many of them."

  "Cowards," was Polillo’s reply.

  Phocas and the admiral’s other men were angered by her taunts. "You should be more careful with that mouth," Phocas warned. Others growled their assent.

  Polillo bulled her head forward and made a wide, mirthless smile. She pointed at her mouth. "There it is. Stop it from flapping, if you dare."

  There were mutters, but no one was foolish enough to test her. Phocas turned away and pretended to be busy with some charts.

  I said: "I think Legate Corais is onto something. We can fight them like direwolves against a herd of boar. We hide in the fog, leap out to harry them — hamstring a few if we’re lucky — then back into hiding. There’s other tricks . . . like pretending that one of us is falling back, letting them close, then strike and run, strike and run, until he’s sick of so many dying, or becomes so weak we can finish him off."

  Cholla Yi shook his head. "It’s too risky. My men would refuse."

  I raised an eyebrow. "Aren’t you their admiral? Who commands — you or their livers?"

  Cholla Yi shrugged. "I command, of course. But that’ll end the moment the men lose faith in me."

  His tone was so sanctimonious and oily I didn’t believe a word he was saying.

  "My women are ready to fight," I said.

  "By the gods, we are ready," Polillo hissed. "And if you put me alone with your men for a day, they’ll be ready to. I’ll put some steel in their spines, or they’ll curse their mothers for bearing them."

  Instead of taking offense, the admiral sighed. "If you want my men to fight," he said to me, "you’ll have to turn the expedition over to me. To be frank, they’re tired of getting orders they know comes from a woman."

  So, that’s it, I thought. Cholla Yi was playing as much of a waiting game as King Keehat. And he would drag his heels until I stepped aside.

  "They blame our bad luck on you and your women," the admiral continued. "And who can say they’re wrong? Every sailor knows women and ships don’t mix. For some reason, the gods of the sea don’t like women, and the goddesses become jealous of your presence."

  Gamelan laughed — a mocking sound that turned Cholla Yi’s words into a fool’s song. The big man flushed, twisted his hands into fists, but still managed outward calm. He gave me a bland smile.

  "Are you refusing to fight, Admiral?" I asked. It was time for bluntness.

  "Not at all," he answered, but the bland smile vanished. "I’m only warning you that if you order it, the men may not follow."

  "And if the orders came from you . . . ?"

  Cholla Yi smiled. "Then they’d fight."

  Abruptly, I rose from the chair, ending the meeting before Polillo’s temper got the better of her. That was my excuse, at any rate. I’ll admit mine was beginning to blow foul.

  "We’ll talk again?" Cholla Yi asked as we took our leave. He sounded anxious.

  "Oh, yes," I answered. "We’ll talk again, Admiral. You can be sure of it."

  I gave him my most carnivorous grin and exited.

  * * * *

  There is a barracks’ game young soldiers played in my time. It was called Loser’s Win, or Hobble. Hobble was played between two young women. Each had to be barefooted, and each was provided with a sharp throwing knife. You faced your opponent from a distance of two paces. The object was to throw the knife as close to the other’s foot as you could, without cutting it. There were three tries each. Each throw had to be closer than the last, and if any thrower faltered, she lost. We played for money, watch and duty sharing, and once to settle a love triangle. The winner in that contest lost part of her big toe, which brought the game to the attention of our superiors, and to its end.

  It was that sort of game I found myself engaged in with Cholla Yi. With a seaborne horde at our heels, he was betting I would be the first to falter, and relinquish command. The stakes were our lives.

  So, I must admit, Scribe, when I left him that night, displaying my most evil, knowing smile, I was bluffing. But, you should also know that I always back my bluff. You see, it was I who was one of the combatants in that final game of Hobble I told you about. No need to sneak a look at my feet. I have all my toes.

  But the conclusion of that test of wills was delayed for a long time. And it was Gamelan who delayed it.

  Two nights after the meeting a heavy fog settled over us. It was so dense we dared not continue, or the fleet might have been separated for good. I ordered a halt, using horns to signal, and we lay becalmed to wait until the fog lifted. We could only pray that Keehat was doing the same.

  Gamelan called me to his cabin. There was a cheery light glowing in his magical brazier when I entered.

  "Come sit and share a little brandy with an old man," he said.

  "I should be on deck, keeping watch," I replied.

  "Nonsense," he said. "There’s nothing to see. If there were, it would be too late and those savages would be on us. Come and sit and I shall tell you how to end this chase in our favor."

  I had reason to be nervous as I obeyed and better reason to empty the first tumbler of brandy with one swallow and pour another. The first spell he’d made me cast had left me shaken from the strange world I had encountered. When I’d duplicated the Spell Of Tongues for the others — again, at his insistence — I’d become more fearful still. The feeling of being drawn down, as if by a water devil, had been even stronger. To my horror, I realized I was reluctant to withdraw. There seemed to be so many promises beneath the surface of that magical meniscus; promises that drew me as much as when I’d first seen that map of the western seas, and ached to know what was beyond.

  Gamelan fumbled in his robe and came out with the scrap of feather he’d stolen from Keehat’s staff. Blindly, he held it out to me. "We have something that belongs to that barbarian king," he said. "Something he prizes above all else . . . " I took the feather, knowing what he was going to say next: " . . . His manhood."

  I took the feather, my fingers trembling. "I know what you want, wizard," I said. "And I cannot — will not — do it."

  "What is it about magic that you fear so much, Rali?" he asked.

  "You know," I said.

  "I don’t know! Tell me!" He hissed.

  "Get someone else!"

  "There is no one. Tell me!"

  And so, I told him. It is a tale that has nothing to do with Halab’s tragic ending. And I have told it to no other person in my life, with exception of Otara, and she is dead. So, write carefully, Scribe. I only tell it now because of my promise to speak only the truth.

  I became a woman at an early age: my monthlies began at ten; by eleven I had the breasts, hips and feminine beard below my belly of a full-grown woman. But although my body had blossomed, my mind was still in early bud and I went about my days in tormented confusion. I thought about sex a great deal, which disgusted me, because I didn’t yet know my inclinations and connected all such yearnings with men. I’d become all hot and sticky for no apparent reason, but whenever I saw a man when I was in such a state, my stomach turned when I contemplated their rough beards, hard forms, and sour smells.

  It was in my twelfth summer, and we were visiting one of my uncle’s estates. He had vast olive orchards, a good kitchen garden, and kept several herds of goats as well, so summers at his estate were always filled with plump black olives, good white cheese, my aunt’s rich black bread, and tomatoes and onions as sweet as any confection. One day my cousin, Veraen, and I made up a lunch of such things and took a long hike into the hills to watch the young goats play. Veraen was fifteen, and although he had grown since I’d seen him last, I was taller than he, a
nd stronger as well, so our time together had been uneasy and conflict-ridden. Normally, we were the best of summer friends. This was one of those afternoons, however, that was so blissful that all thoughts of such things had disappeared along with the dandelion fluff that flew over the green hills on scented winds.

  That day, we ate our fill, drank from a small spring that sprang out from under an old oak tree, and laid down to enjoy the shade of the tree. It was a hot, quiet afternoon. The cicadas buzzed among the wood, a few birds twittered and hopped about, and a solitary wasp hunted for mud to daub her nest. The air was thick with the smell of wild rosemary, oregano and thyme that had gone to blossom.

  Veraen began to tell silly stories, which made me laugh, and then he started to tickle me and I tickled him back. We reverted to childhood, becoming nearly hysterical with laughter — rolling about and wrestling and tickling.

  Then childhood ended, and before I knew it my hem was up, my undergarments were down, my legs apart and Veraen was clambering on top of me. Then my senses returned and I pushed him up with a hard forearm. Veraen was on his knees, his breeches open, and I saw his penis — not a boy’s, but a man’s organ, thick and hard rising up like a drawbridge. The sight soured my stomach.

  "Get away!" I said.

  Instead he fell back on me, pinning my arms, and driving blindly at me, trying to force entry. I bucked and fought and finally managed to get one hand free. I hit him as hard as I could, got my other one loose and was about to hurl him off when I felt a heavy blow against my head.

  "Stop fighting," he shouted and I saw he had a rock in his fist.

  Instead, I screamed in anger and pain. My strength surged and somehow I rose up and somehow he struck me with the rock again and somehow I killed him.