Hawkwood s Voyage: Book One of The Monarchies of God

by Paul Kearney

  A desolate ocean, this. They were too far from land to sight any birds, and the only sealife Bardolin had glimpsed were a few shoals of wingfish flitting over the surface of the waves. He had seen a deep-sea jellyfish, too, which the sailors called devil’s toadstools. This one had been twenty feet across, trailing tentacles half as long as the ship and glowing down in the dimmer water as it pulsed its obscure way through the depths.

  The imp chirruped with excitement. It was peeking out of his robe, its eyes shining as it watched the water break under the keel and felt the swift breeze of the ship’s passage. It was growing steadily more restless at having to keep out of sight. The only time Bardolin set it free was in the night, when it hunted rats up and down the ship.

  He had wondered about sending it into Murad’s cabin, to observe him and Griella, but the very thought had shamed him.

  As though conjured up by his preoccupations, Griella appeared at his side. She leant on the rail beside him and scratched the ear of the imp, which gurgled with pleasure.

  “We have our wind, then,” she said.

  “So it would seem.”

  “How long can Pernicus keep it going?”

  “Some days. By then we should have picked up one of the prevailing winds beyond the area of the doldrums.”

  “You’re beginning to sound like a sailor, Bardolin. You’ll be talking of decks and companionways and ports next . . . Why have you been avoiding me?”

  “I have not,” Bardolin said, keeping his gaze anchored in the leaping waves.

  “Are you jealous of the nobleman?”

  The mage said nothing.

  “I thought I told you: I sleep with him to protect us. His word is law, remember? I could not refuse.”

  “I know that,” Bardolin said testily. “I am not your keeper in any case.”

  “You are jealous.”

  “I am afraid.”

  “Of what? That he might make me his duchess? I think not.”

  “It is common knowledge amongst the crew and the soldiers that he is . . . besotted with you. And I look at his face every day, and see the changes being wrought in it. What are you doing, Griella?”

  She smiled. “I think I give him bad dreams.”

  “You are playing with a hot coal. You will get burned.”

  “I know what it is I do. I make him pay for his nobility.”

  “Take care, child. If you are discovered for what you are, your life is forfeit—especially with that rabid priest on board. And even the Dweomer-folk have no love for shifters. You would be alone.”

  “Alone, Bardolin? Would you not stand by me?”

  The mage sighed heavily. “You know I would, though much good it would do us.”

  “But you don’t like killing. How would you defend me?” she asked playfully.

  “Enough, Griella. I am not in the mood for your games.” He paused, then, hating himself, asked: “Do you like going to his bed?”

  She tossed her head. “Perhaps, sometimes. I am in a position of power, Bardolin, for the first time in my life. He loves me.” She laughed, and the imp grinned at her until the corners of its mouth reached its long ears.

  “He will be viceroy of this colony we are to found in the west, and he loves me.”

  “It sounds as though you do expect to be a duchess.”

  “I will be something, not just a peasant girl with the black disease. I will be something more, duchess or no.”

  “I spoke to the captain about you.”

  “What?” She was aghast. “Why? What did you say?”

  Bardolin’s voice grew savage. “At that time I thought you were not so willing to be bedded by this man. I asked the captain to intercede. He did, but he tells me that Murad would hear none of it.”

  Griella giggled. “I have him in thrall, the poor man.”

  “No good will come of it, girl. Leave it.”

  “No. You are like a mother hen clucking over an egg, Bardolin. Leave off me.” There was a touch of violence in her voice. Bardolin turned and looked into her face.

  It was almost four bells in the last dog-watch, and the sky was darkening. Already the lanterns at the stern and mastheads had been lit in the hope that the other ship would see them and the little fleet would be reunited. Griella’s face was a livid oval in the failing light and her tawny hair seemed sable-dark. But her eyes had a shine to them, a luminosity that Bardolin did not like.

  “Dusk and dawn, they are the two hardest times, are they not?” he asked quietly. “Traditionally the time of the hunt. The longer we are at sea, Griella, the harder it will become to control. Do not let your tormenting of this man get out of hand, or the change will be upon you ere you know it.”

  “I can control it,” she said, and her voice seemed deeper than it had been.

  “Yes. But one time, in the last light of the day or in the dark hour before the dawn, it will get the better of you. The beast seeks always to be free, but you must not let it out, Griella.”

  She turned her face away from him. Four bells rang out, and the watch changed, a crowd of sailors coming up yawning from below-decks, those on duty leaving their posts for the swaying hammocks below.

  “I am not a child any more, Bardolin. I do not need your advice. I sought to help you.”

  “Help yourself first,” he said.

  “I will. I can make my own way.”

  Without looking at him again she left the forecastle. He watched her small, upright figure traverse the waist—the sailors knew better than to molest her now—and enter the sterncastle where the officers’ cabins were.

  Bardolin resumed his watching of the waters whilst the imp cheeped interrogatively from his breast. It was hungry, and wanted to be off on its nightly search for rats.

  “Soon, my little comrade, soon,” he soothed it.

  He leaned on the rail and watched the sun sink down slowly into the Western Ocean, a great saffron disc touched with a burning wrack of cloud. It gave the sea on the western horizon the aspect of just-spilled blood.

  The carrack forged on willingly, propelled by the sorcerous wind. Her sails were pyramids of rose-tinted canvas in the last light of the sunset and the lanterns about her gleamed like earthbound stars. The ship was alone on the face of the waters; as far as any man might see, there was no other speck of life moving under the gleam of the rising moon.

  TWENTY

  O RMANN Dyke.

  The tumbling thunder of the bombardment went on relentlessly, but they had grown used to it and no longer commented upon it.

  “We are more or less blind to what goes on over the brow of the nearest hill,” Martellus told his assembled officers. “I have sent out three different scouting missions, but none has returned. The Merduks’ security is excellent. All we know therefore is what we see: a minimum of siegeworks, the deployment of the batteries to the front—”

  “And a hive of activity to the rear,” old Isak finished.

  “Just so. The eastern barbican has taken a pasting, and the gunnery battle is all but over. He will assault very soon.”

  “How many guns do we have still firing across the river?” one man asked.

  “Less than half a dozen, and those are the masked ones that Andruw has been saving for the end.”

  “We cannot let the eastern side of the bridge go without a struggle,” one officer said.

  “I agree.” Martellus looked round at his fellow Torunnans. The engineers have been working through the night. They have planted charges under the remaining supports. The Searil bridge can be blown in a matter of moments, but first I want to bloody their nose again. I want them to assault the barbican.”

  “What’s left of it,” someone murmured.

  Three days had passed since the first, headlong assault of the Merduk army. In those three days there had, contrary to Martellus’ prediction, been no direct attack on the eastern fortifications. Instead Shahr Baraz had brought up his heavy guns, emplaced them behind stout revetments and begun an artillery duel
with the guns in the eastern barbican. He had lost heavily in men and material in the first deployment, but once his pieces were secure the more numerous Merduk heavy culverins had begun to pound the Torunnan fort on the eastern bank to rubble. The bombardment had continued unabated for thirty-six hours. Most of Andruw’s guns were silenced, and the eastern barbican was holed and breached in several places. Only a scratch garrison remained there. The rest had been withdrawn back over the river to the island, that long strip of land between the river and the dyke.

  “The heavy charges are in place. When they occupy the eastern fort they are in for a shock, but we must make them occupy it—we must make them pay for it. And to do that we must keep troops there, to tempt them in,” Martellus said relentlessly.

  “Who commands this forlorn hope?” an officer asked.

  “Young Corfe, my aide, the one who was at Aekir. Andruw will have his hands full directing the remaining artillery. The rest of the skeleton garrison is under Corfe.”

  “Let us hope he will not turn tail like he did at Aekir,” someone muttered.

  Martellus’ eyes turned that pale, inhuman shade which always silenced his subordinates.

  “He will do his duty.”

  J AN Baffarin, the chief engineer, came scuttling like a crab through the low-ceilinged bomb-proof towards Corfe and Andruw.

  “We’ve repaired the powder lines. There should be no problem now.”

  He was shouting without realizing it, as they all had been for the past day and night. The huge tumult of the bombardment overhead had ceased to seem unusual and was now part of the accepted order of things.

  The bomb-proof was large, low and massively buttressed. Five hundred men crouched within it as the shell and shot rained down on the fortress above their heads. Dust and fragments of loose stone came drifting down when there was a particularly close hit, and the air seemed to shake and shimmer in the light of the shuddering oil lamps. “The Catacombs” the troops had wryly labelled their shelter, and it seemed apt. All around the bodies of men sprawled and lolled, some asleep despite the unending noise and vibration. They looked like the aftermath of the plague, a scene from some febrile nightmare.

  Corfe roused himself from the concussed stupor he had been in.

  “What of the guns?”

  “The casemates are intact, but Saint’s love, those are the heaviest calibre shells I’ve ever seen. The gatehouse is a pile of rubble, and the walls are in pieces. They don’t have to attack. If they keep this up they’ll reduce Ormann Dyke to powder without ever setting foot in it.”

  Andruw shook his head. “They can’t have the ammunition and powder, not with their supply line as long as it is. I’ll wager a good bottle of Candelarian that they’re running low right now. This bombardment is for show as much as anything else. They want to stun us into surrender, perhaps.”

  A particularly close explosion made them wince and duck instinctively. The granite ceiling seemed to groan under the assault.

  “Some show,” Baffarin said dubiously.

  “Your men know the drill,” Corfe said. “As soon as the rearguard is across the bridge you touch off the charges, both on the bridge itself and in the barbican. We’ll send the whole damn lot of them flying into the Thurians. There’s a show for you.”

  The engineer chuckled.

  The bombardment stopped.

  There were a few tardy detonations from late-falling shells, and then a silence came down which was so profound that Corfe was alarmed, for a second believing that he had gone deaf. Someone coughed, and the noise seemed abnormally loud in the sudden stillness. The sleeping men began rousing themselves, staring around and shaking each other.

  “On your feet!” Corfe shouted. “Gunners to your pieces, arquebusiers to your stations. They’re on their way, lads!”

  The catacombs dissolved into a shadowy chaos of moving men. Baffarin grasped Corfe’s arm.

  “See you on the other side of the river,” he said, and then was gone.

  T HE devastation was awe-inspiring. The eastern barbican was like a castle of sand which had been undermined by the tide. There were yawning gaps in the walls, mounds of stone and rubble everywhere, burning timber crackling and shimmering in the dust-laden air. Corfe’s meagre command fanned out to their prearranged positions whilst Andruw’s gunners began wheeling the surviving culverins into firing positions.

  Corfe clambered up the ruin of the gatehouse and surveyed the Merduk dispositions. Their batteries were smoke-shrouded, though a cold breeze from the north was shredding the powder fog moment by moment. He glimpsed great bodies of men on the move, elephants, regiments of horsemen and lumbering, heavy-laden waggons. The hills were crawling with orderly and disorderly movement.

  A gun went off, as flat as a hand-clap after the thunder of the heavy-calibre cannons, and a sort of shudder went through the columns behind the smoke. They began to move, and soon it was possible to make out three armies marching towards the line of the river. One was aimed at the ruin of the barbican, the other two to the north and south, their goal apparently the Searil River itself. They were oddly burdened, and waggons rolled along in their midst, hauled by elephants.

  The five hundred Torunnans who were the barbican’s last defenders spread out along the tattered battlements, their arquebuses levelled. Their orders were to make a demonstration, to draw as many of the enemy as possible into the fortifications and then withdraw slowly, finally escaping over the Searil bridge. It would be a difficult thing to control, this fighting retreat. Corfe felt no fear at the thought of the coming assault or the possibility of injury and death, but he was mortally afraid of making a hash of things. These five hundred were his command, his first since the fall of Aekir; and he knew he was still regarded by many of his fellow Torunnans as the man who had deserted John Mogen. He was coldly determined to do well today.

  The warmth of the sun was bright and welcome. Men wriggled fingers in their ears to let out the ringing aftermath of the artillery, then sighted down their weapons at the advancing enemy.

  “Easy!” Corfe called out. “Wait till I give the word.”

  A gun barked from one of the upper casemates, and a second later a blossom of blasted earth appeared on the slope before the Merduk formations. Andruw testing the range.

  They came on at a slow walk, the high-sided waggons trundling in their midst. The northern and southern hosts had more of these elephant-drawn vehicles than the one which was aimed at the barbican. Corfe strained his eyes to make out the strange loads, then whistled.

  “Boats!” The waggons were loaded with shallow-hulled, puntlike craft piled one on top of the other. They were going to try and cross the Searil to north and south whilst engaging the garrison on the east bank at the same time.

  “They’ll be lucky,” a nearby soldier said, and spat over the battered wall. “The Searil’s swollen after the rain. It’s running along like a bolting horse. I hope they have strong arms, or they’ll be washed all the way down to the Kardian.”

  There was a spatter of brief laughter along the ramparts.

  Andruw’s guns began to sing out one by one. The young gunnery officer had kept his five most accurate pieces this side of the river, and was adjusting their traverse and elevation personally. They began to lob explosive shells into the forefront of the central enemy formation, blasting them into red ruin. Corfe saw an elephant lifted half off its feet as a shell exploded squarely under it. Another hit one of the high-laden wains and sent slivers of deadly wood spraying like spears through its escort. There was confusion, men milling about, panic-stricken beasts trampling and trumpeting madly. The Torunnans watched with a high sense of glee, happy to be repaying the Merduks in kind for the relentless bombardment of the past days.

  But the ranks reformed, and the Merduks came on again faster, loping along at a brisk trot, leaving the waggons behind. Corfe could see that the lead elements of these men were in shining half-armour and mail. They were the Hraibadar, the shock-troops of Shahr Bar
az.

  The formation splintered and spread out so that the shellbursts took a lesser toll. As they jogged ever closer Corfe rapped out orders, pitching his voice to carry over the rippling booms of the Torunnan artillery.

  “Ready your pieces!”

  The men fitted the smouldering slow-match into the wheel-locks of their arquebuses.

  “Present your pieces!”

  He raised his sabre. He could see individual faces in the ranks of the approaching enemy, horsehair plumes, panting mouths underneath the tall helms.

  He swept his sabre down. “Give fire!”

  The walls erupted in a line of smoke and flame as nigh on five hundred arquebuses went off in a single volley. The enemy, scarcely a hundred yards away, were thrown back as if by a sudden gale of wind. The front ranks dissolved into a mass of wriggling, crawling men, and those behind faltered a moment, then came on again.

  “Reload!” Corfe shouted. It was Andruw’s turn now.

  The five guns of the remaining Torunnan battery waited until the Merduks were within fifty yards, and then fired as one. They were loaded with deadly canister: hollow cans of thin metal containing thousands of arquebus bullets. Five jets of smoke spurted out, and the Merduks were flattened once more in a dreadful slaughter.

  The smoke was too thick for aiming. Corfe shouted at the top of his voice, waving his sabre: “Back off the walls! Second position, lads! Back on me!”

  The Torunnans ran down from the ruined battlements and formed a swift two-deep line below. Their sergeants and ensigns pushed them into position and then stood ready.

  The gunners were leaving their pieces, having spiked the touch-holes. Corfe saw Andruw there, laughing as he ran. When the last artillerymen were behind the line of arquebusiers he gave the order.

  “Ready your pieces!”

  A line of figures pouring through the gaps in the walls now, hundreds of them, screaming as they came.

  “Front rank, present your pieces!”

  Thirty yards away. Could they be stopped? It seemed impossible.

  “Give fire!”

  A shattering volley that hid the enemy in clouds of dark smoke.