The Warrior's Tale

by Allan Cole, Chris Bunch

  I became something other than Captain Rali Antero of the Maranon Guard. The Guard - and Orissa - could whistle. 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 mainyard 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 mainmast 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 helmsman.

  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 were 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 duellist'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 gushed 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 to that.

  In front of me was the last Archon. Behind him stood the last soldier on the quarterdeck, 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 hissed. And then he hurled his curse at me: 'The bitch ferret! Slayer of my brother, draped in deceitful magic not her own, and more not of this time. 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. There 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 hands obediently form talons. But as my hand crept reluctantly towards 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 towards 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.

  'My power becomes the steel, becomes the sword, and reaches for your heart, just as you took my brother's.' He stepped forward, sword ready to strike, moving swiftly and lithely, not at all an old man but a young warrior.

  I stood still like a stalled ox waiting for the butcher's hammer, but just then something came between us.

  All I can name it is: a presence, one that changed as I half-saw it. First I thought it was the helmeted, armoured body of Maranonia, but then it changed, becoming the form of my long-dead, long-mourned Ot
ara, and changed again, and I thought I saw Tries, but it was my mother's face, and then it was the form of a woman I did not know, one wearing the ancient costume of Orissa's villages, but it was nothing but sea mist from the storm around us as the binding spell freed my arms and I hurled my sword as if it were a spear, the Archon in mid-attack, almost on me.

  The blade struck him point first, just in the side, below the curve of his ribs on the right side, in the lung.

  The Archon screamed, his muscles spasmed and he sent his own sword spinning high, high, to fall into the sea. He stumbled back, nearly falling, but somehow - and I knew it was the power of his will -kept his feet and my sword fell from his body.

  There was red, red foam on his lips, and he spat, and spat again, and his yellow-white beard reddened.

  He stumbled once more and caught himself on the open lid of one of his magic chests. 'Very well, very well. I feared this ... and made the castings. There are worlds and yet other worlds.

  'Bitch ferret, you struck me, but your blow shall give you nothing. You will still die, now, or mayhap in a day or a month. And what days you have will be spent in pain and confusion. But they are numbered, Antero, and the number is but few.'

  He looked up at the dark stormy skies and his voice steadied and rose to a shriek, as loud as when he had railed at me from the clouds outside his sea-castle, shouting in some language I knew not, casting some dark spell that I did not understand, but his voice sent ice through my soul. Then I understood his last few words:

  The price I paid

  The debt I'm owed

  I claim the debt

  The blood is paid.

  Then it was as if I had never struck him a deathblow, and he was strong and virile, growing to a height much greater than mine. A wizard dies hard, I thought, and my hands found my dagger and unsheathed it.

  But before I could attack, the Archon bent, picked up one of his chests, a chest that three strong men would have strained to lift and went in three great strides to the rail.

  'The blood is paid, and the battle yet joined,' he howled and leapt straight out into the storming seas, his magic clutched in his arms.

  I rushed to the rail, peering over, but there was nothing but the rolling waves and scud and foam.

  I had just a moment to realize the last Archon was truly dead.

  Then the seas went mad and I knew what he meant by his blood price and even understood Gamelan's words in his tent last night: To touch that power ... some sort of sacrifice ... a great sacrifice I cannot even imagine.'

  The Archon had paid that price and the earth granted his greatest spell, as fire smashed up into the skies, driving away grey and rain, and two volcanoes exploded. Lava sprayed from the nearest one's mouth, and smoke and fire blasted to the heavens.

  I stood gaping and then Corais was beside me, and had me by the arm.

  'Rali! We must flee!'

  My memory is not exact for the next few minutes and hours, but I do remember being half-dragged along the deck, clumsily going across to our own galley, half-carried by my women. I do not remember any Lycanthian soldiers still fighting. Perhaps they were all dead, or perhaps they were like me, staring at fiery death. I remember hearing Stryker shouting orders for everyone to man the oars and I remember seeing through the grey haze Cholla Yi's ship skittering away at full speed, oars digging deeply as it fled the wrath to come.

  I remember seeing some of the Lycanthian ships wallowing in the swell, as if their helms were abandoned by panicked sailors.

  Great boulders, hurled by the gods' own trebuchets, boulders far larger than even the biggest ship, were crashing down into the seas around us and there was a steady rain of searing dust-like particles.

  I remember seeing other Orissan ships following our lead, rowing desperately away from the volcanoes' eruption.

  But there was no safety, for we were caught in the same snare as the Archon and his ships. Behind us were the volcanoes. Ahead of us were reefs, savage rock fingers sticking up from the crashing waves, long sand spits waiting to embrace our keels, stone islets with never a beach for a merciful landing. All of these closed off the safety of the open sea to us.

  I was on the quarterdeck, Stryker having taken over the helm, assisted by two of his strongest, most skilled seamen. 'Get your women below,' he ordered.

  I wondered why? If one of those boulders struck our ship we were all doomed, and I for one, would rather die here in the open air, even though it stank of sulphur and ozone than below in the reeking bilges of the ship - and then one of the soldiers looked back, at the volcano, and screamed.

  I turned to see something that still haunts my dreams, that sends me shouting awake in panic. A monstrous wave, no, not a wave but truly a wall of water was rushing down upon us. It was grey, struck with white and a line of dirty foam frothed along its crest. It came faster than a tiger at full charge, faster than a spearcast, faster than an arrow, faster than doom itself.

  My eyes told me it dwarfed even the volcano that gave it birth, although I knew that to be impossible. How tall was it? I do not know, I cannot even guess. Taller than our masthead by far. Perhaps twice, or even three times that height, over a hundred feet. It had been birthed near the land, because as it closed on us I could see it bore trees ripped from the earth and even what I thought to be huts and small boats tumbling in its core.

  It roared - louder than the wind, louder than the volcanoes. Perhaps I screamed. Certainly I heard others scream and there would be no shame in that. I dove for shelter, as Stryker, a man harder than anyone had a right to be, shouted final orders for the oars to be brought inboard, and found myself clinging for life to a grating.

  Then the sea took us.

  It lifted us by the stern, up and up, and canting us forward, and I was looking down at the foredeck and the oarsmen, flattening themselves and grabbing their benches for a hold, and on beyond the deck, down at the wave-tossed sea below.

  We rose and rose, being lifted to the top of the wave and I felt a moment of hope and then the crest broke and the sea buried our deck ... I didn't know what happened - which way was up and which way was the sky; feeling water pummel me as if I were being beaten in the square ring and my lungs were gasping, shouting for air, no air, no air; my lungs couldn't stand another moment, but I forbade them the weakness of giving in and then there was air, and we were sliding out of control down the far side of the wave.

  I pulled myself up, had time to see most of my Guardswomen had found holds and few had been washed overboard; and Stryker was alive and shouting orders once more; and Duban as well; and the oars were manned, just as I heard a man scream there were breakers ahead.

  We were about to crash into the reefs. Their claws rose, grasping, just ahead of our bows. And there could be no turning, no evading, as another wave was upon us.

  Again we were lifted, lifted and then buried in the depths and yet again we lived through it, spinning down into the swirling oceans in the wake of these hell waves, and we yet lived.

  I remembered the reef, the reef we were about to impale ourselves on, and searched ahead for that new death. But there was nothing and I realized what had happened and looked behind and saw the wave had lifted us up and over those knife-rocks.

  But there were more rocks around us and Stryker was giving commands and the oarsmen were trying to obey but there was no time for anything, as yet a third wave bore down on us.

  This time, as we rose, I saw two other ships in the grip of the wave - both Orissan.

  Again, we survived.

  The waves came four more times that grim day, each time lifting us and taking us further to the west, further into unknown seas, further from that solid line of reefs that blocked our only known path home to Orissa.

  But finally the last wave had taken us and passed on, and we were tossing in a 'normal' storm, able to take stock. Through the murk I saw other ships. One of them was Cholla Yi's.

  We were not the only survivors.

  I saw no sign of
the Lycanthian ships. I think, being less quick at the helm, they must have been destroyed by the volcano's waves. But perhaps some survived, to be driven against the reefs or even to live on, to die on barbaric shores. It mattered not to me. Lycanth was ended.

  But at an awful price.

  We were lost on unknown seas, our charts useless. Men and women were dead and wounded. The only salvadon I could see would be in magic. Just as sorcery had brought us to these straits, so our own magic was the only hope we had.

  But lying bloodied, just where his tent had been set just before the battle, was Gamelan. He moved not at all, and there was a great bruise at his forehead.

  He appeared quite dead.

  Eight

  Cry of the Lizard

  AT HEART, AM. gods are malign thugs. I say this without fear, for I have been both favoured and damned by the gods, and I'm still uncertain whether we are better off blessed or cursed. I think we are all part of a game of theirs, overseen by a Master Jester, and the board He designed is so littered with pigshit that no mortal can cross without fouling her boots. I've also never seen a treasure that didn't have a serpent hidden in it. Nor encountered a person, no matter how gifted, who at some point did not have just cause to bemoan her fate.

  As I think back on the day of that sea battle, I strongly suspect the halls of the gods were ringing with laughter at ourplight. Once again, they granted Orissa victory. But once again, that banner was hoisted on a fouled stick.

  Our losses were frightening: many were dead, and the cries of our wounded echoed across the hissing seas; our fleet of fifteen had been reduced to nine, of which two were so damaged they would soon follow the others into the depths if not repaired. The only real luck that day was nearly all of my women survived the fight unscathed. But those I lost, I mourned deeply, and their absence, as well as Gamelan's, weighed heavily. But there was no time for mourning, nor for the dead, not yet.

  In spite of the still-heaving seas, I had a longboat lowered, and told Stryker to detail his best seamen to row me across to the flagship. I needed to talk to Cholla Yi, and not by signal flag or speaking trumpet. I also took Corais and Polillo with me.