Jim Baen’s Universe

by Edited by Eric Flint

  The cap­ta­in’s reply drew her back to the mo­ment. “Bas­kers for su­re, Dir Skal­da, but the so­ut­hern se­as? Not damn li­kely, ex­cu­se me, even if the fish we­re wil­ling to climb in the holds. The Enemy was sco­uting tho­se parts long be­fo­re the­ir bows dip­ped in­to the Hin­ter Is­land So­und. Dir Rat­he knows that.”

  “Dir Rat­he knows it is ti­me to go be­low and con­ti­nue our pre­pa­ra­ti­ons,” that worthy snap­ped, wal­king away with one hand re­luc­tantly clam­ped on the wet ra­iling to co­un­ter the in­c­re­asing plun­ging of the deck as the Pri­de en­te­red the chan­nel and ro­se che­er­ful­ly to me­et the in­co­ming swells.

  “Dir Rat­he,” Skal­da in­for­med the of­fen­ded cap­ta­in in a low vo­ice, “also knows this deck will su­rely be splas­hed as we pass bet­we­en the Co­ve’s arms.”

  Captain Li­en­t­he’s eyes met and held hers with unex­pec­ted di­rec­t­ness. She re­ali­zed Rat­he’s ru­de­ness hadn’t bot­he­red him af­ter all. He re­ac­hed out as if to to­uch her arm. “Dir Skal­da. I con­fess I’m not-com­for­tab­le-” words se­emed to fa­il him, and his fa­ce pa­led sud­denly, as if se­e­ing a whir­l­po­ol ahe­ad in­to which he was abo­ut to plun­ge. “For­gi­ve my im­per­ti­nen­ce, Dir Skal­da. But I worry abo­ut the chil­d­ren. The ha­zards of this jo­ur­ney. They lo­oked so yo­ung when you bro­ught them on bo­ard. And they sle­ep.”

  Skalda fo­und she had no com­fort to of­fer him. His eyes went dull as he lo­oked in­to hers and un­der­s­to­od. “Li­ke that, is it,” Li­en­t­he sa­id in a vo­ice oddly free of bit­ter­ness. “As well they sle­ep, then. Wo­uld we all co­uld.”

  ****

  Men ra­ined down on me one day. I wat­c­hed them co­me, limbs gi­ven gra­ce by the oce­an, ar­mor cat­c­hing sun glints as it drag­ged the bo­di­es to me. The gre­at flocks, star­t­led apart by the dis­rup­ti­on, di­sap­pe­ared be­yond my crust. Mo­ments la­ter, they coyly re­tur­ned to start the­ir fe­ast. Blo­od clo­uded the wa­ter be­yond my eye, but it was a tem­po­rary blin­d­ness. I’d se­en all this be­fo­re.

  ****

  They prac­ti­ced be­low decks, re­he­ar­sing ri­tu­al no­ne un­der­s­to­od and, truth be told, no­ne trus­ted. Skal­da’s ur­gings from the be­gin­ning had be­en to fol­low the Sum­mo­ning Spell wit­ho­ut mo­di­fi­ca­ti­on, in­c­lu­ding use of the ar­c­ha­ic lan­gu­age forms used in the par­c­h­ments. Ag­non, the­ir best lin­gu­ist, had co­ac­hed them all in how to pro­no­un­ce the words, sin­ce sub­t­le chan­ges had oc­cur­red sin­ce this Spell was last cast. If it ever had be­en. Rat­he ex­p­res­sed all the­ir do­ubts.

  “The Sum­mo­ning. It pro­mi­ses to bring the des­t­ruc­ti­on of our fo­es, to gu­aran­tee ut­ter and un­con­tes­tab­le vic­tory. Ex­p­la­in to me then, if it wor­ked be­fo­re, how co­uld our Enemy ha­ve re­bu­ilt its fle­ets?” he obj­ec­ted one last ti­me as they res­ted. Cap­ta­in Li­en­t­he had sent word down. They wo­uld re­ach the Blo­od Re­ef at sun­set, co­in­ci­ding with the hig­hest ti­de of the se­ason in this pla­ce: sa­fety for his ship’s ke­el but most im­por­tantly, the ap­po­in­ted ho­ur for the Spell.

  “There may ha­ve be­en anot­her Enemy,” Ag­non an­s­we­red, al­ways the re­aso­nab­le one. “It was cer­ta­inly long ago.”

  Skalda sip­ped from the mug of mul­led wi­ne, than­king the se­dir-pri­est who bro­ught it warm to her hands. It was cold be­low deck, cold and re­do­lent of the Pri­de’s usu­al car­go. But the fis­her had be­en the best cho­ice ava­ilab­le: spe­ed and ca­mo­uf­la­ge in one, her low pro­fi­le on the wa­ter an aid to what they must do.

  So the­re was no lu­xury in the Pri­de, be­yond that gi­ven the sle­eping chil­d­ren, and no fo­od for any of them un­til the de­ed was do­ne. She no­ti­ced the ot­hers drank ca­uti­o­usly as well, va­lu­ing the he­at in the­ir empty bel­li­es but ke­eping the­ir tho­ughts co­ol and di­rec­ted. “If you ha­ve anot­her plan for our sal­va­ti­on, Dir Rat­he,” she snap­ped, lo­sing her pa­ti­en­ce, “we’d all be gra­te­ful. Af­ter all, you are the only one of us he­re to con­test the Enemy’s for­ces di­rectly in bat­tle. Per­haps you be­li­eve the Cir­c­le’s Fle­et can de­fe­at them at sea?”

  There we­re six of them aro­und the cru­de tab­le, all dir-pri­ests: of the six, she, Rat­he, and Ag­non wo­uld be­ar the ac­ti­on of the Spell, cas­ting it over the Blo­od Re­ef. The­re was a se­cond for each of them, a so­ur­ce of strength if any fal­te­red, rep­la­ce­ment if any we­re kil­led. For her­self, Dir Clef­ta, a grim, si­lent man from the Hin­ter Is­les. His com­mu­nity had be­en the first to aban­don the­ir ho­mes to the Enemy’s ne­west of­fen­si­ve; he and three se­dir pri­ests all that sur­vi­ved to pro­tect the­ir few ships as they fled to the Cir­c­le Co­ve. Dir Se­gon wo­uld stand at Rat­he’s back; she, tho­ugh yo­ung, was al­re­ady be­li­eved he­ir ap­pa­rent to Skal­da’s own pla­ce in the co­un­cil. It was dan­ge­ro­us to risk her he­re, Skal­da tho­ught with reg­ret, but this throw of the di­ce ris­ked far mo­re than the li­fe of her pro­mi­sing ap­pren­ti­ce. Ag­non wo­uld rely on the qu­i­et go­od sen­se of his own brot­her, Dir Ag­nar-the­irs be­ing one of very few fa­mily pa­irings wit­hin the pri­es­t­ho­od. It ad­ded a strength to the­ir abi­li­ti­es be­yond eit­her alo­ne.

  Strength? Ex­pe­ri­en­ce? We ha­ve tho­se, Skal­da sa­id to her­self, ga­zing at each in turn, col­lec­ting a som­ber reply of de­ter­mi­ned, if an­xi­o­us lo­oks. Let’s ho­pe we al­so ha­ve the bles­sing of the Depths and Her Qu­i­et God on this an­ci­ent ma­gic as well.

  There had be­en so­ul-se­ar­c­hing and ar­gu­ment far be­yond Rat­he’s re­aso­nab­le do­ubts. Whi­le ma­gic had be­en the to­ol of pri­ests sin­ce re­cords we­re first kept, that to­ol had evol­ved with the­ir so­ci­ety’s growth and chan­ge. To­day’s ma­gic was pre­ci­se, wel­lsc­ho­oled, ap­pli­ed by spe­ci­alists. The ol­der ma­gic had be­en, as far as the­ir re­se­ar­c­hes co­uld dis­co­ver, lar­ger in sco­pe and far blo­odi­er in cost.

  Skalda had de­li­be­ra­tely so­ught the fab­led old ma­gic, on­ce re­ports we­re con­fir­med that the Enemy-no, she wo­uld not ke­ep them fa­ce­less-the P’oku­kii we­re abo­ut to crush the Is­land sta­tes on­ce and for all.

  The P’oku­kii had be­en con­tent to ru­le the vast in­te­ri­or of the Wes­tern con­ti­nent, tra­ding for ge­ne­ra­ti­ons with the is­lan­d­folk for the ric­hes of the sea. They had lit­tle in com­mon, rel­ying on a hal­ting tra­de ton­gue and ne­it­her si­de in­te­rest in le­ar­ning mo­re abo­ut the ot­her. The first of many mis­ta­kes, Skal­da and many ot­her Is­lan­ders re­ali­zed too la­te. For whi­le they knew the P’oku­kii fe­ared in­va­si­on from so­me myste­ri­o­us eas­t­ward land-a fe­ar the mo­re wi­dely tra­ve­led is­lan­ders dis­mis­sed as su­per­s­ti­ti­on-they had not ap­pre­ci­ated the depth of that fe­ar. Af­ter all, who wo­uld ta­ke se­ri­o­usly a pe­op­le who re­fu­sed to step from the land.

  Then, fifty ye­ars ago, a new so­ot­h­sa­yer had ap­pe­ared in the de­sert, war­ning the P’oku­kii that the do­om from the east was co­ming. The tiny is­land sta­tes bet­we­en, with the­ir fi­er­ce in­de­pen­den­ce and stran­ge ways, must be con­qu­ered and for­ti­fi­ed to de­fend the con­ti­nent it­self.

  The in­con­ce­ivab­le re­so­ur­ces of the P’oku­kii we­re tur­ned to the oce­an they fe­ared. Ports we­re clo­sed; ship­bu­il­ding went on at a fe­ve­rish pa­ce. The amu­sed Is­lan­ders simply to­ok the­ir tra­de el­sew­he­re, among them­sel­ves, blind to what was co­ming.

  For du­ring Skal­da’s chil­d­ho­od, the P’oku­kii flo­oded se­award, mel­ded in­to a vast fle­et con­sis­ting of mo­re and lar­ger ships than all of the is­lands to­get­her pos­ses­sed. All that sa­ved them wa
s the ca­uti­on of an enemy new to the sea. The Enemy was fe­ar­ful, the­ir sor­ce­rers grap­pling with the un­p­re­dic­ta­bi­lity of land spells over wa­ter, the­ir com­man­ders inex­pe­ri­en­ced. The Cir­c­le Is­les de­fen­ded them­sel­ves in sur­p­ri­se, ex­pec­ting of­fers of re­con­ci­li­ati­on, re­sum­p­ti­ons of tra­de.

  What they re­ce­ived was unen­ding war. At first, it was an even con­f­lict, the sea-know­led­ge of the is­lan­ders and the­ir pri­ests mo­re than a match des­pi­te the su­pe­ri­or num­bers of the­ir foe. Then, slowly, is­land af­ter is­land was con­qu­ered, the­ir in­ha­bi­tants for­ced to flee or die. The Enemy, whi­le ne­ver em­b­ra­cing the oce­an, le­ar­ned her ways. The­ir sor­ce­rers be­ca­me de­adly, ga­ining spells strip­ped from the minds of dir pri­ests cap­tu­red be­fo­re they co­uld kill them­sel­ves. So­me­how the bat­tle ma­gic of the is­lan­ders, bles­sed by the Depths and her Qu­i­et God, had pro­ved even mo­re ef­fec­ti­ve in the hands of pa­gans.

  There we­re, Skal­da sig­hed, ne­ver gu­aran­te­es on what of­fen­ded de­ity.

  “’Ware Ships!” the cri­es from the crow’s nest pul­led them all on deck, only tho­se res­pon­sib­le for the wind fil­ling the sa­ils ig­no­ring the dis­t­rac­ti­on. Skal­da whis­pe­red a se­e­ing spell, he­aring mut­te­red ec­ho­es from eit­her si­de and be­hind as the mul­ti­tu­de of pri­ests did the sa­me. The cap­ta­in ste­adi­ed his te­les­co­pe, not ne­eding ma­gic to see what was swar­ming over the ho­ri­zon.

  Rathe and ot­her sur­vi­vors hadn’t exag­ge­ra­ted, Skal­da tho­ught with reg­ret as her vi­si­on fo­cu­sed on the wavy li­ne of pa­in­ted prows and tos­sing masts. It wasn’t a fle­et-it was as if an en­ti­re na­ti­on had ar­med and lo­aded it­self on to the sea. Why do they think us such a thre­at? she won­de­red aga­in. The very old ta­les held ru­mors of a de­ci­si­ve bat­tle cen­tu­ri­es ago, one in which the is­land sta­tes ga­ined the­ir fre­edom from the ma­in­land. But bat­tles, suc­ces­sful or ot­her­wi­se, se­emed un­li­kely to spawn such ha­te and fe­ar as this. Un­less, she tho­ught une­asily, it was how that bat­tle was won.

  “Why are they he­re, Dir Skal­da?” It was the cap­ta­in pul­ling at her el­bow ur­gently. “The­re is not­hing in this di­rec­ti­on worth at­tac­king. Just the de­ser­ted Outer Is­lands and then the open oce­an.”

  Segnon’s cle­ar, calm vo­ice had the slig­h­test shi­ver to it as she drew the con­c­lu­si­on they all fe­ared. “The Blo­od Re­ef. They ha­ve le­ar­ned abo­ut the Sum­mo­ning Spell. They se­ek to stop us.”

  “Or to use it them­sel­ves,” Skal­da sa­id flatly. “Or use it them­sel­ves.” She de­li­be­ra­tely tur­ned her back on that thre­at and ra­ised her vo­ice so it so­ared over the mur­murs and spe­cu­la­ti­ons fil­ling the deck. “Ra­ise all the sa­il the Pri­de car­ri­es. Dir-pri­ests. Spells of pro­tec­ti­on, es­pe­ci­al­ly for the hull and the se­dir-pri­ests. We must not be hin­de­red. We will not be stop­ped. For the Co­ve!”

  “For the Co­ve!” they chan­ted back, eyes afi­re with pur­po­se, gnar­led hands ri­sing in the air be­si­de smo­oth yo­ung fists to ac­cept her chal­len­ge.

  The Pri­de dro­ve her prow de­ep in­to the wa­ves as spe­ed be­ca­me the­ir best we­apon. Skal­da sta­yed well away from the ra­iling now, kno­wing she had no right to risk her­self so clo­se to her duty. Wind whip­ped her ha­ir free of its knot, las­hing her che­eks.

  “’Ware! The Blo­od Re­ef! 'Wa­re be­low!” ca­me the cry he­ar­t­be­ats la­ter. Pri­ests scram­b­led to drop the Pri­de’s sa­ils. The Enemy fle­et had al­re­ady hal­ved the dis­tan­ce bet­we­en them; now its ships we­re clo­se eno­ugh for sho­uts to carry, clo­se eno­ugh for pro­tec­ti­on spells to be tes­ted by the ma­gic of sor­ce­rers. So far, only tho­se in the crow’s nest had be­en har­med, ca­ught in the bo­un­dary bet­we­en for­ces, scre­aming as they we­re blin­ded. Anot­her vic­tory for the­ir Enemy.

  The Pri­de set­tled in­to po­si­ti­on abo­ve the Blo­od Re­ef. The­re was a sud­den hush, as all re­ali­zed they wo­uld so­on be wit­hin the ran­ge of mo­re mun­da­ne we­aponry, aga­inst which they had no de­fen­se.

  “Wake the chil­d­ren,” Skal­da sa­id calmly.

  ****

  A fin­ger of dar­k­ness scrat­c­hed the crystal­li­ne sky abo­ve me, a mo­ving fin­ger cas­ting its sha­dow and mo­re in­to my sight. Six forms de­tac­hed from it, drif­ting down to me in synchrony and sac­ri­fi­ce. In the­ir wa­ke, I co­uld he­ar the old words.

  The Sum­mo­ning.

  The forms, small and de­vo­id of ar­mor, fell clo­ser. The flocks con­ver­ged, un­de­ter­red by bles­sing or pur­po­se. Blo­od sta­ined my vi­si­on and didn’t dif­fu­se in­to the oce­an as it sho­uld. In­s­te­ad, it flo­wed down to me, co­ated me, en­te­red my mo­uth tas­ting of in­no­cen­ce shed for ra­ge’s sa­ke.

  At last!

  If I had slept, this was the mo­ment I awo­ke.

  ****

  “It’s wor­king!” sho­uted a vo­ice, pa­nic-frin­ged rat­her than tri­um­p­hant. So­met­hing was hap­pe­ning, Skal­da amen­ded to her­self, bra­cing as the deck of the Pri­de shif­ted un­der an oce­an se­eming to ri­se un­der the­ir fe­et. A bar­rel ca­me lo­ose and rol­led, ma­king the se­dir-pri­ests jump to dod­ge it.

  The wa­ter lif­ted im­pos­sibly be­si­de them, with no wind, no swell to ex­p­la­in it. The Enemy fle­et was ca­ught as well, cri­es of alarm rin­ging over the stran­ge si­len­ce of the sea. Only the no­ises of hu­man and ship bro­ke aga­inst it.

  The Pri­de be­gan to slip down the si­de of a wa­tery mo­un­ta­in, the mo­ve­ment so de­li­ca­te and de­cep­ti­vely slow the cap­ta­in let go his de­ath’s grip on the whe­el and simply sta­red, open­mo­ut­hed at what was be­co­ming pla­in.

  For it wasn’t a wa­ve ri­sing to lo­om be­si­de them. It was the Blo­od Re­ef it­self, its co­ral-crus­ted bulk shed­ding wa­ter in a fall mi­les long as it ro­se be­yond the oce­an’s grip, the ro­ar eno­ugh to drown out any scre­ams. Fish di­ed, ca­ught by spurs and out­c­rops of stony growth, im­p­ri­so­ned hel­p­les­sly in air. Ot­her things we­re ca­ught as well: bits of bo­ne and flesh, swords and ar­mor, a child’s ro­be.

  Skalda fo­und it con­t­ra­dic­tory that she co­uld he­ar the so­unds of Dir Ag­non lo­sing his mul­led wi­ne be­si­de her over the din of the wa­ter­fall.

  She clung to the ra­il, mo­re to hold what was hu­man-sca­led than be­ca­use the ship was un­s­te­ady. The wa­ter­fall en­ded, rep­la­ced by a sin­g­le lo­ud who­of of air as wha­te­ver they had sum­mo­ned ex­pel­led its first bre­ath.

  “What is it?” bre­at­hed Clef­ta, his hand still tight on her sho­ul­der.

  Skalda sho­ok her he­ad, then re­ali­zed she did know just as what lo­oked li­ke a pro­mon­tory to one end of the flo­ating re­ef tur­ned to re­gard her thro­ugh a gle­aming black and yel­low eye easily as tall as the Pri­de’s mast.

  “It’s the Qu­i­et God him­self,” she whis­pe­red, “ro­used to war.”

  ****

  Vision shar­pe­ned and ad­ded the pla­ne of ho­ri­zon, dis­t­rac­ting with its pro­mi­ses of far and new. I so­ught the Sum­mo­ners. The­re. The­re must be three.

  ****

  “There must be three,” Skal­da sa­id, re­pe­ating from the par­c­h­ment.

  “Yes, yes. Three to Sum­mon,” Rat­he ad­ded, mo­ving to stand be­si­de her and Ag­non. His vo­ice held the sa­me mix­tu­re of pri­de and hor­ror they li­kely all felt. It was one thing to pray da­ily and in­ter­p­ret bles­sin­gs-qu­ite anot­her to wa­ke a God and wa­it.

  “Three to Aim,” Skal­da sa­id in the sa­me stun­ned whis­per, te­aring her eyes from that one gre­at eye to se­ek out the scat­te­red but for­mi­dab
­le fle­et of the­ir Enemy. “But how? "Each to be­co­me an Eye," the par­c­h­ment sa­id. "What do we do?”

  “Sweet Depths,” bre­at­hed a vo­ice be­hind her. She co­uldn’t re­cog­ni­ze it and didn’t turn to see. Her qu­es­ti­on was an­s­we­red as the hu­ge, un­be­li­evab­le he­ad tur­ned fully to­wards them. The­re we­re two mo­re eyes, si­mi­lar in si­ze to the first, ope­ning slowly as co­ral crac­ked away from the­ir lids to splash in the wa­ter be­low.

  “Quick!” Skal­da or­de­red, her vo­ice grown cold and calm. A sha­me her in­si­des we­re the op­po­si­te, but that was a dis­tant prob­lem. “Run out the plank!”

  “Remind me not to be ne­ar you when you are wrong,” Rat­he sa­id, his eyes fe­ver-bright. He un­did the sword bel­ted low aro­und his hips and let it drop to the deck, an in­s­tin­c­ti­ve and ac­cu­ra­te di­sar­ming, Skal­da de­ci­ded, fol­lo­wing su­it. Ag­non had no we­apon be­yond his wit. He lo­oked as tho­ugh he’d pre­fer to pick up one of the de­adly bla­des him­self.

  The Enemy fle­et, per­haps re­as­su­red by what ap­pe­ared to be me­rely a new is­land, had be­gun to re­or­ga­ni­ze. Ca­ta­pults fi­red test shot, thum­ping in­to the oce­an just dis­tant from the Pri­de, ca­uti­o­usly not too clo­se to the Qu­i­et God. “Hurry,” Skal­da ur­ged the ot­hers, mo­ving first to the plank.

  It was bro­ad and dry, qu­ite se­cu­re to walk along. As if fully awa­re of what was hap­pe­ning, the Qu­i­et God slid clo­ser, clo­ser, un­til the end of the plank hung not over open wa­ter but gra­ted de­li­ca­tely aga­inst a che­ek of dying co­ral and spon­ge. So­met­hing held the Pri­de rock ste­ady; lo­oking down Skal­da tho­ught she co­uld ma­ke out an im­men­se rid­ge of co­ral di­sap­pe­aring un­der the ke­el.