by Lyndon Hardy
Umbriel sighed and shut her eyes. She took a single step and then hesitated. She pursed her lips and extended them forward briefly, brushing the sorcerer’s cheek.
“That is a kiss one would give to a brother,” Kelric grumbled. “Remember, in a fortnight you will wish to see again how fares your heartthrob on the battlefield. And before I perform, you must have a clear account for what you have learned tonight.”
“But I found out nothing of what I wanted,” Umbriel said. “I heard but a snatch of conversation and then you were done.”
“You know that he is safe,” Kelric replied. “That alone is worth the price.”
Umbriel sighed a second time and took another step forward. Kelric reached out and swept her into his bony arms. He thrust his lips on hers. With surprising strength, he resisted her attempts to push away his chest. After a moment, he released his grip, and she staggered backwards, face flushed and panting deeply. “That is more to my liking,” he cackled. “And perhaps in time you will learn to enjoy it as well.”
“Never,” Umbriel choked. “I was weak with worry because I have not heard. For no other reason would I seek your service or agree to what you demand for it.”
“Never is a long time,” Kelric said. “And you will come again, I know it.” His eyes widened and he stared at the woman. “And perhaps the next time you will not find me so repugnant.”
Umbriel shuddered and then bolted for the door. She raced between Aeriel and Alodar and was in the hallway before Kelric’s raspy laugh echoed after.
“It is unkind to treat her so, Kelric,” Aeriel said. “She has done you no harm.”
“Nor has she shown any favor,” the sorcerer snapped back. “We had a fair agreement, and she was obligated to hold to her end of it.” He waved his arm in irritation. “She is like the rest, choosing to ignore me until the need is great, and then expecting my gracious acceptance of a mind-numbing task for a mere pittance of fee. If she does not show me a little tenderness, then our relation will be governed instead by fear.”
Aeriel pulled her lips into a tight line. “The queen is judged by the court she keeps,” she said. “There may come a day when shortcomings of your craft outweigh the advantages you provide to the crown.”
Kelric laughed again. “You are in fine spirits tonight, Aeriel,” he said. He ran his hand across his bare chest and leered at her figure. “But I am most happy that you choose to see me at this hour. It must mean only that you have come to surrender your virtue for the sake of my person only, not for some service that I would provide in trade.”
“I come as always on the affairs of the fair lady,” Aeriel said. “If you instruct Alodar here in the manner of your craft, then the safety of the queen will be greatly augmented.”
Kelric turned to look at Alodar and wrinkled his brow in recognition. “I have dismissed him already, and the matter is closed. Come now, let me see at least some of what lies underneath that silken gown.”
“Your talk is far worse than your deed, Kelric,” Aeriel said. “My request has royal authority behind it; you cannot dismiss the matter so lightly.”
“Then perhaps an illusion for just the three of us? The young man here would be as interested as I in how you might look unclothed.”
“You have no basis on which to paint such an image,” Aeriel said coldly. “It would not bother me if you did try.”
Kelric stomped his foot in frustration and looked around the room for a robe to cover his bony frame. “Oh very well, Aeriel. This meeting will be for business, the same as always, but one of these times I will loose my control and then who can say what might happen?” He opened his eyes wide and stared at Aeriel as he had done at Umbriel, but Aeriel did not turn away.
Kelric sighed in final defeat and turned to some chairs stacked in the corner of the small chamber. As he arranged them for sitting, he continued the conversation over his shoulder. “It is a sorcerer’s eye, Aeriel,” he said. “Most rare and powerful, I do admit. I have heard of it only from others who long ago used the last of their vital forces in our craft. And they had heard from older ones still. None of us have had the opportunity to see if what is reputed of it can actually be true.”
He finished positioning the chairs to his satisfaction and motioned for Aeriel and Alodar to join him in the small circle. “Great enchantments, it is said, come from the holder of the eye. Nearly instantaneous and subtle, like the ones talked of in the sagas. But enchantments I risk no more, my lady. Even a single one would more than deplete what remains of my life force.”
“You are far craftier than you lead us to believe,” Aeriel said. “You bemoan the loss of your powers and that you must carefully husband what meager resources remain. Yet for a single embrace, you search all the way to the west for a lovesick maiden.”
“It is true, nonetheless,” Kelric protested. “And the few kisses and squeezes I receive for what remains are far more valuable than whatever pile of jewels the queen could heap upon me.”
“You would not have to use the eye,” Alodar interrupted. “I am willing to take whatever risk is involved. I want from you only the instruction that will make it possible for me to do so.”
“But then, Vendora sails tomorrow across the sea,” Kelric said. “There is too little time remaining for me to explain something as potent as this. Any execution must be built upon a firm foundation of well-learned fundamentals.”
“With lady Aeriel’s help, I can come as well,” Alodar suggested. “You can teach me during the voyage.”
“Then there is the matter of payment,” Kelric said, his face brightening as he looked at Aeriel. “What do you offer me in exchange, my lady?”
“You know the peril which now threatens the queen,” Aeriel replied. “And I know as well that, beneath the threats and leers, there is the man who still has loyalty to the crown. Loyalty for providing him with bed, food, and protection, regardless of the howls of the ones he had outraged by his actions. It is not a question of payment, Kelric, but one of duty.”
Kelric sighed and lowered his head to his chest. For a long moment the room was silent. “Very well,” he said at last. “We will begin instruction when we are out to sea and the routine of the voyage has been established.”
Aeriel rose and kissed Kelric gently on the forehead. “And your secret is still safe with me.” She laughed. “It would spoil your image if anyone knew that a sorcerer’s heart was not constructed entirely of stone.” She turned to Alodar and extended her hand. “Come,” she said, “tell me if it is to Feston or Basil you would rather belong, and I will see that the arrangements are made.”
Alodar stood and grasped her hand in his. “To neither. I want no more than to be a member of Quantos’ marines.”
Aeriel’s smile broadened. “Quantos, of course,” she said as she looked Alodar in the eye. “It is the right choice for one who is truly worthy.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Power of the Eye
ALODAR steadied himself with a hand on the ship’s rail as the deck rolled beneath his feet. The events of the past two days crowded together in a jumble. Along with the marines, sailors, clerks, heralds, and other functionaries of the court, he had been rumbled onto the giant flagship of state that now beat east in the middle of a royal fleet. The details of bunkspace, battlestation, and the protocols of life aboard ship had occupied all of his time, but soon enough he hoped to see the sorcerer and learn the secrets of the eye.
“An ill-tempered decision to be sure,” muttered the leather-faced man on Alodar’s left, as they leaned against the rail of the poop deck and squinted into the grayness which surrounded them. “A full complement of officers, rowers and marines stood at the ready for the queen’s command. But before we embarked, the courtiers descended upon us, adding two to every one on board. And to what effect. Those silk-armed dandies will be of little value if indeed we do stumble across some privateer in this fog. And the galley and bunks are so crowded that we must take turns on deck in this miser
able wetness, while others eat and sleep below.”
Alodar grunted a reply as he idly ran his hand along the rail and looked up into the rigging. Yesterday the cold east wind had howled, but today, on both of the masts, the lateen sails were furled tightly against their yards, useless in the whisper of wind that barely stirred the fog. Over the side, he watched the lazy rhythm of the oars that maintained their headway. Unlike the sleek wargalleys with their multiple rows of synchronized sweeps, the broad-beamed barge depended primarily on the wind for its motive force. The meager complement of twenty oars to a side was used only in calms such as this or to aid in coming quickly about.
Looking forward, Alodar could barely see the gently heaving forecastle. The bowsprit, some three hundred feet away, was completely hidden by the mist. The main deck ran a full fifty feet beam to beam but was broken into many small areas by the masts, stays, capstans, chests, and hatches which led below. On the poop itself were stowed two longboats for use in shallow water, and a small deckhouse that sheltered the wheel stood near the ladders that descended to midship. All along the superstructure, nothing broke the silence of the calm sea except for the slow creaking groan that coursed down the great ship as each wave rolled under its hull.
“So you are a page to the lady Aeriel,” the man continued. “Though I hear that you are also well watched by lord Basil of the bottomless purse.”
“Yes, Quantos, that I am.” Alodar laughed. “He and his followers at court do not wish me well. Nor, for that matter, does lord Feston—or Duncan, the practitioner in magic. But so long as the queen maintains the ban on confrontation between the factions, I think nothing will come of their desires.”
“So I understand,” Quantos said. “The court cleaves itself asunder. The lot of them have no courage to stand on their own merit but seek instead to ingratiate themselves with one of the suitors. Depending on who seems to have the upper hand in the struggle for the fair lady’s favor, they shift allegiances like the tide, ripping first Feston’s colors from their sleeves and then Basil’s. Why even Duncan has a following, though he has been here less than a week. And look what distortion it brings to our order on deck. Feston’s supporters are to man the starboard watch, Basil’s the port; Duncan’s cluster about the queen below deck. The rest of us spend our idle hours up here out of the way on the poop. Let us hope that the queen gives no new sign of favor. It will take a good day to reassign the stations once again.”
“Why do you not speculate with the rest?” Alodar asked.
“I serve the queen, man,” Quantos said with a thump of his bow to the deck. “I served her father in many a sea battle before. My men and I are marines for the crown of Procolon. We earn our pay by keenly sighted arrow and sharply swung blade, not by the foppish exchange of wit in the palace.”
Several voices about Alodar grunted agreement but suddenly, before more could be said, a high whistle pierced the fog. Alodar turned to listen and heard a heavy splash off the starboard bow. He strained to catch the direction from which the noise came and heard the whine of two more projectiles hurling by.
“Catapults,” he shouted as the memory from Iron Fist raced back. “Catapults. We are under attack!”
As he spoke, he saw, breaking through the mist, the flash of banked oars moving in unison and a low-riding hull gliding across the waves.
“A wargalley,” Quantos added to the cry, “by the markings, from the south. Somehow it slipped past the rest of the fleet in the fog. And it is on collision course at the beam. Below decks quickly, Grengor! Sound the alarm.”
One of the marines left Quantos’ side and quickly ran down the ladder to the main deck and then into the hatchway to the levels below. Alodar watched in fascination as the sleek vessel cut the water with graceful ease, a small wave bubbling outwards from a two-pronged ram just beneath the waterline. Unlike their own giant, the trireme had some two hundred rowers crammed into a freeboard of no more than five feet. A hundred feet long but only fifteen across, it seemed like a dagger, rapidly closing to pierce the balloon that was the royal barge.
Another shot from the wargalley whistled through the air and then another. A third found the range and, with a splintering of wood, a heavy stone rattled across the decking between the masts and their stays. As the two ships closed, the hatchways of the barge suddenly discharged a volley of men, scrambling upwards to prepare for the attack. Two more missiles crashed down into their midst, and cries of pain mingled with the curses of confusion as the various contingents shouldered past one another to their stations on the deck.
Finally a deep voice boomed out above the rest. “Archers fire to starboard,” Feston bellowed as he hurried up from below and saw the trireme approaching. “Rake their decks before they close. Oarsmen to port, back your oars; oarsmen to starboard, stroke at ram speed.”
Two more stones plunged from the sky, striking the forecastle as Quantos’ men nocked their shafts and fired. “Archers to your mark,” Feston shouted in anger as arrows flew only from the stern. “Strafe their decks, I say.”
He looked rapidly about as his men struggled to form at the starboard rail, and then vaulted across to the other side.
“Sweetbalm, Basil,” he shouted in a rage as the next volley crashed into them. “You know that I have no bowmen in my contingent. Yet I am the commander still. Have your vassals arch their fire over our heads and aid in our defense.’
“Your men have the fortune to be the closest to the engagement,” Basil answered over the growing din. “Use them as you see fit. We will aid in repulsing boarders when the moment is the most propitious.”
Alodar saw Feston clench his fist in frustration and then leap back across the deck. In midstride, he grabbed for the main mast as the ship lurched from its smooth forward motion. The portside oars were stroking backwards and the huge ship began to lumber about, swinging out of the oncoming vessel’s way. Alodar’s eyes darted between the rapidly closing trireme, its ram kicking up foam, and the changing geometry of the gap as the royal barge slowly spun.
He heard the hum of arrows and ducked instinctively behind his shield, as did Quantos at his side.
“It is too late,” the marine said as the flight of arrows from across the waves struck the deck and bulwarks around them. “We turn too slowly to avoid the ram. Brace yourself for the blow.”
With a shocking jolt, the ships collided, and the air was filled with the shrieking protest of ripping wood and metal.
“A sound hit,” Quantos shouted as he sprang from the bulwark. “And guided no doubt by a sorcerer’s vision far keener than Kelric’s. Lively, lads. We must grapple on before they reverse oars and strike again.”
Alodar saw the trireme’s oars come to a stop and then reverse in synchronism so that their pull backed the smaller ship away from the hole it had made. Following the examples around him, he picked up one of the coils of rope at his feet and flung the attached iron hook across and down to the wargalley’s deck. He glanced forward and saw Feston’s men doing the same amidship. The enemy crew abandoned the catapult and hacked away at the grapple lines as they came and stuck.
The compact sleekness of the trireme left little room for other than the rowers, however, and the hooks were being cast faster than they could be cut away. Two launched from the poop lodged firmly, high on the sternboard, out of the deckhand’s immediate reach. In an instant, Quantos and his men had the lines firmly secured to anchor capstans near the stern of the barge. With a precision that was the product of years of drill, the crew bent to the crossarms and began to crank the two ships closer together.
“The angle of contact becomes too shallow for them to ram again,” Quantos shouted as he watched the slack being taken up. “If our port side rows vigorously enough, we can get the ships alongside and then have a chance.”
Alodar looked down towards the bow and saw the closing gap. The men aboard the trireme abandoned their attempt to cut free and, except for a few archers still harassing the queen’s men in the stern, most
of them converged on the beam opposite Feston’s forces.
The ropes flew faster as Feston’s followers sensed success in their endeavor. Then, as the last few feet closed and the two vessels hit with a dull thud, Alodar saw at least a dozen grappling hooks strike out and pull the bond fast.
“Forward and at them,” Feston called above the yell of success and he sprang up on the rails with his sword flying. He leaped without hesitation to the lower deck alongside. With a mighty slash, he hacked at the first man who opposed him, tumbling him back onto the galley’s deck. Feston’s momentum carried him forward into the middle of the other vessel and his men on either side began to follow. But Alodar saw the reluctance increase up and down the line on either side of Feston until no man moved in the bow and near the stern. Across on the port, Basil and his men stood silent, awaiting the outcome.
The fighters on the trireme converged on the small party that had boarded, attacking at the flank and pushing to cut off the bulge of Feston’s line at the rail.
“We must storm the poop and aid from behind,” Quantos shouted. “Come, my lads, drop your bows and draw your blades. Across the guardrail we go.”
Quantos drew his sword; with his banner in the other hand, he placed his foot up on the rail to wave his men on. His troops prepared to follow. But just as the first of them drew up to the rail, a fresh shower of arrows hailed into their midst. Two men fell to their knees, screaming in pain, feathers fluttering from shoulder and arm. Quantos let out a weak croak and then tumbled in a heap, a single shaft transfixing his throat, its bloody point sticking out the back of his neck.
Alodar looked across the decks and saw one of Feston’s men fall and then another. The trireme fighters pressed their attack vigorously at those who had boarded. Alodar hesitated a second longer, clutching Cedric’s sword. Then, with a full intake of breath, he stepped to Quantos’ slumping form and grabbed his banner. Standing over the fallen marine, he waved it aloft. “For the queen!” he shouted. “For revenge and victory! Attack!”