by Lyndon Hardy
"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 then: 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 mid-stride, 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!"
Another round of arrows came and two splintered off Alodar's shield. With a fierce yell, he sprang over the bulwark and fell into the midst of the archers who faced them. He dropped the banner, drew his sword and hacked at the head of the one who stood dumbfounded nearby. "For Quantos," he yelled.
Then, in a massive wave, the marines responded. They swarmed over the gap and began swinging at the archers, who retreated towards middeck.
The men pressing Feston turned and glanced at the commotion, hesitating in their own attack. Alodar waved his sword
overhead and led the marines onto their rear. The others on the royal barge saw the men of the trireme drop back in confusion, trying to protect their suddenly exposed flank. Now sensing victory, Feston's full contingent stormed over the rails. Basil gave the command and his men also followed. The oars of the trireme stopped and the rowers began to pour onto the deck from two hatches to aid their beleaguered comrades.
The deck of the wargalley became a mad swirl of sword and shield, without pattern, as the two forces engaged. Alodar jabbed point first at the man on his right, while hastily raising his shield to the left to ward off an axe swinging down from a seeming giant. The blow numbed his arm, but he instinctively stepped forward to pass beyond the thrust of his foes as his own followers closed to engage them. The man on his left screamed and fell, spouting blood from neck and arm, as Quantos' marines pressed on the attack. The trained fighters drew together and formed a line about Alodar. With him as the center, they began slashing forward to midship.
Alodar's mind slid into the intensity of concentration that Cedric had taught him, fear blotted out, eyes alert for an opening or a surprise thrust, and arm darting out to give pain. He swung his sword in a swift horizontal arc and felt the sharp blade bite into flesh as his adversary raised both arms high to crash downward an instant too late. With a cry already hoarse, he egged on the men who lagged on the left and closed up the right when the roll of the ship or blow of the foeman created a hole in their line. He moved his troop steadily forward, mindless of stinging cuts and slashes. Almost in a daze, he called halt when he recognized that only armbands with Feston's red plume faced them. The wargalley was theirs and Alodar had had a taste of battle.
Alodar leaned against the railing, still clutching Quantos' banner, as he watched the transfer of prisoners from the trireme to the barge. He glanced about the deck to see that the thaumaturgical wax he had used on the more serious wounds was safely stored away. The larger vessel now rode quite low in the water and even listed slightly to the side. A steady procession of divers dropped over the rail, each one adding another nail to fix a makeshift patch over the ragged hole ripped by the wargalley. The fog had lifted with the beginning of a gentle breeze, but it would be many hours more before the repair was tight, the water bailed from the bilge, and the barge again underway.
One by one, the followers of Feston and Basil emerged from the trireme's hold, carrying back what meager plunder there was aboard. Then amidst a general murmur from both decks, a knot of closely linked figures emerged, all save one with arms across their faces, nearly stumbling as they groped forward to the gangplank.
"The sorcerer from the trireme," Alodar heard Grengor say at his side. "Only an enchanted vision could have guided that ship undetected in the fog through the surrounding fleet and so unerringly into the barge's side. Had we not more than twice the normal crew, they well might have ripped us from stem to stern before we could have grappled her. The kingdoms to the south sorely press the fair lady on land and nearly cut off her aid as well."'
In the middle of the block of men that stumbled forward, Alodar saw a mane of unruly hair shake free, and then a face contorted with rage, surrounding deep-set and burning eyes. Almost instinctively, Alodar flung his hand in the way of the glare, menacing even at a distance.
"A sorcerer who has been thwarted makes a most dangerous captive," he said. "The guard we place around him better be both careful and complete. But his presence reminds me of why I am here. I must go below and seek out the sorcerer of the queen."
"And your instruction during your absence, master?" Grengor asked. "Are we to remain on station here in the stern, transfer to the trireme as part of the queen's crew when it takes station with the rest of the fleet, or can we go below, since the watch bells have long since sounded?"
Alodar turned in puzzlement to face the sergeant. He saw a round face set on a stocky form, wide-set green eyes, large and trusting, and a plain mouth between jaws of crushing strength. "Why do you ask me, Grengor? Why not ask the one who commands in Quantos' place?"
"I beg your pardon, sir," Grengor said. "Our band is small, now not even a dozen, but we have fought together for many years under Quantos' banner. In our grief, I?we all feel that none of us has the wit to lead the others. But rather than disperse to follow the banner of one of the lords, we would rather answer to you, wherever you may lead us. Indeed you are no Quantos, but you showed much spirit in what happened today. We have decided among ourselves that this is as he would have had it."
Alodar's jaw dropped in surprise, but before he could answer, a page wearing the same colors as he bounded up the ladder to the deck.
"Attend to our lady," the newcomer said. "She is accompanied by the sorcerer Kelric in her cabin at this moment."
"On station until I return," Alodar said hastily. He turned and followed the other page down the ladder, his mind aswirl with what the sergeant had said.
"Alodar, you are safe," Aeriel cried as he entered her cabin a few minutes later. "I heard that Quantos was felled and members of his troop as well. I did not know if you were among them."
"There are losses enough for which to grieve," Alodar said, "and we are lucky to be still afloat." He looked at Kelric, slumped on a small stool in the corner. "The power of sorcery was great indeed."
Kelric tipped back his head and laughed. "Sorcery!" he cackled. "The power of sorcery. It reads so easy in the sagas. Pressed on land from the west and south, and on the sea, as well. And when all seems blackest, a simple charm saves them all so they may live in contentment thereafter."
Alodar looked around the plain cabin and saw it was no larger than his own. Aeriel sat on the bunk, dressed in men's breeches and tunic. To her left, on a small chest, was a pile of documents and the quills and seals. There were no other chairs and Alodar stood facing the two, leaning against the wall.
"But a single charm might activate the eye, and then it will be as the sagas say," he replied.
"It is not so easy," Kelric said. "The charm for what you have is most complex. You cannot learn it unless you are proficient and, more importantly, are confident in many a charm of lesser power. Without the basis to build upon, a sorcerer's eye will be forever useless to you.'"
"But why is that?" Alodar asked. "Certainly in thaumaturgy, alchemy, and even magic, each spell is entire unto itself. Even if learned by rote, it has no bearing on the others."
"The difference, lad," Kelric said, "is that each of those arts manipulates the physical objects and forces about us. Sorcery deals instead with a matter much more elusive, our minds. You cannot see or touch the medium with which you work. And the subtle and intricate will be totally missed, unless you become familiar with the rough outlines first."
"The words are different, but the message is the same as with the other crafts." Alodar sighed. He shook his head and looked back at Kelric. "No matter, regardless of the effort, I am ready."
"Well then, let us start at the beginning," Kelric said. "There are five types of charms in sorcery. A charm of prophecy or far-seeing is a cantrip; a charm of illusion is a glamour; a charm of fate is a curse; dominance of one's will by the sorcerer is enchantment; and transfer of consciousness from one animate object to another is ensorcellment. To take effect, charms are recited three times or, as the Rule of Three states, 'thrice spoken, once fulfilled.' "
"I noted at the royal ball that you cast your glamour in that repetitious way. Each word seemed to follow the next in a pattern but somehow with a logic that I could not follow."
"Yes, the chanting of the charm is all. Great skill and practice are necessary to say all of the words with the proper rhythm and intonation for success. The slightest falter produces hallucinations and head pains that can last for weeks. In my own practice, I have misspun a charm but twice and the memories still give me a shudder. Not only are even the most simple charms difficult, but they must be mastered before a more complex one can be attempted. As one proceeds towards completion, each word somehow becomes more difficult to
slide off the tongue, harder to remember. Indeed, the more complex and powerful spells create back pressures that cannot be comprehended by one who has not tried his mettle on hurdles more easily surmounted. And the greater the charm, the greater is the sickness and agony for failure. It takes a stout heart to attempt such castings, knowing the difficulty and the consequences of error. If anything is the mark of the sorcerer, it is possession of enormous bravery."
"Then why not carry a grimoire as does the alchemist?" Alodar asked. "Or have a library, like the magician guilds. Reading from a correct text to reduce the risks would seem easy enough."
"Because," Kelric responded, "no written language or special symbology yet evolved can convey the precise nuances of tone which are essential for a successful charm. They are passed by word of mouth from unwilling teacher to foolish pupil, from generation to generation. It is the only way that the lore of sorcery is preserved. And far better it would be if the craft sank into decay, as has the practice of wizardry."
Alodar frowned. "Why do you always deprecate your craft, master Kelric?"
"Why? You ask why?" Kelric snorted. "Is it not obvious? Oh, I was like you once, young and eager, lured by the promise of power, the respect of all with whom I dealt, the ability to control and mold the thoughts of others to my will."
Kelric paused and closed his eyes for a moment, pulling the memories to the surface of his thoughts. "And I succeeded," he said, again looking Alodar in the eye. "I learned quickly and discovered many new charms known to no others. I acquired the fame of masters many years my senior. But at the same time I lost what every sorcerer looses and can never regain… Today's battle is over. When you leave you will share a slap on the back and a few tall stories with your comrades in arms. You will relax in each other's presence, feeling warm in the glow of friendship and trust. But it would not be so if you were a sorcerer. What man then would talk with you over a cup of rum, or bet the bill on who is first to pinch the barmaid? And what woman would come willingly into your arms and look trustingly into your eyes as you murmured sweet nothings? You would be shunned by all and dealt with only by necessity. Only by spilling some of your vital forces would you see an occasional glimpse of soft thigh and at that you would judge yourself lucky. It takes bravery to be a sorcerer, I have said, and far more than what is required to cast the charms."