If he had heard …! Laron! The thread of orange was still there! She glanced to the great axis, but it was now some distance away. Laron was carrying this fragment outside the iron case, she realized suddenly. He knows. Laron somehow knew. He had left out the faintest of tethers for her to follow and cling to.
My chivalrous champion, thought Velander, suddenly overflowing with goodwill for the short, scrawny youth with cold blood and a pasted-on beard.
Laron had actually forgotten about the chunk of glass in his purse, and because he had no need for coins in the glass wilderness, there was nothing to jog his memory. They did not arrive at the river until nearly sunset. Without further delay they raised and bailed the gigboat, then rowed out into the current to return to the Shadowmoon. There was no living off the land, apart from the pools of drinking water.
They reached the Shadowmoon in a third of the time the voyage upstream had taken. The five men left with the schooner had discovered a large treasury barge that had sunk before it had totally burned away. They had raised more than their combined weight of gold, mostly as unmelted coins. The gold in the dead city where they were moored proved to be deep under melted rock and glass.
The trip back down the river to Gironal took only days. As Miral rose later in the morning, so, too, did Laron rise later. On the other hand, Feran and his new bedmate were hardly emerging at all, but the trip was uneventful so it did not matter. On their first day back aboard the Shadowmoon, Druskarl had the watch. Laron kept him company for a time.
“Velander and Feran seem anxious for each other’s company,” Laron observed. “What do they do for all that time? Sex only takes a dozen or so minutes, at most.”
“Where did you learn that?” asked Druskarl as he raised his eyes to the sky.
“By watching sundry animals performing the act.”
“You are still young,” replied Druskarl, somewhat patronizingly. “When you are in love, nothing else exists except for your beloved.”
“Young? In body I am fourteen, but in years I am seven centuries.”
“Have you ever been in love?”
“Now that you mention it, no,” Laron admitted sheepishly.
“As was required, has been proven. Are you jealous?”
“Of course not! I am dead. Are you jealous?”
“I have been gelded. Of course not.”
“Then are you envious?”
“Now that you mention it, yes.”
“So am I.”
Not long after that, Laron went down to his cabin, crawled in, and bolted the hatch. He was a little earlier than Miral’s setting, so he lay awake. The idea for another experiment to free Ninth had come to him, and he was thinking through the potential risks. Presently, there was a soft rattling and tapping at the inner side-hatch to his tiny personal space. “Laron, are you awake? Laron!” It was the soft, furtive call of someone who did not wish to wake others, and the voice was Velander’s. After perhaps a minute it ceased. Laron lay still, counting to fifty. Then he eased the hatch open.
With his unique senses he could detect the heat leaking out of Feran’s cabin, but there was only enough for one body. Down in the lower deck area were the enticing, succulent shapes of the other crewmen. Most were lying in their narrow cots, asleep—but one shape in the darkness was two bodies clinging together.
I may be a virgin, but I have a feeling I know what is going on here, thought the vampyre as he crawled back into his cabin and silently slid the hatch closed again. If I had warm blood, I would be probably be blushing. Within moments Miral was down and Laron was thinking nothing at all.
The Shadowmoon’s last evening on the Dioran River saw a lot of activity, as Feran had the schooner prepared for its return to the open sea. Waiting for darkness, they stopped at the ruins of what once had been the winter palace of the Gironal monarch. The salvaged coins were hidden in the bilge, the decks scrubbed, and their rubbish was weighted down and sunk in the river. Only the supplies of wine had run really low, although rainwater collected from glass pools meant they still had plenty to drink.
Finally there was no more to do, and a few of them chose to go ashore and look for melted gold. Laron was among them, but he kept far from the others. This would be his last chance to wander on the Torean wasteland, and he wanted to soak in the experience alone, with his heightened senses extended to their limits. It was not long before he had the feeling of being watched. What is here? he wondered. The place had been a playground for very rich and generally stupid people, it was not a place for magic strong enough to survive the worst that Silverdeath could do. Then he realized what it was.
For Velander, it was a time of confusion. The ocular brightened as Laron approached, then there was the flare of the casting that he used to bind its anchor to the glass fragment from the great axis. Suddenly she could see the world again!
There was Laron, walking amid the ruins. Her view was from a perspective of a single eye about two or three feet above his head, but by moving around she could get almost any view except straight up. After a time Laron ceased his random ramblings, and walked purposefully until he reached the edge of the river. There was the Shadowmoon, and someone on the quarterdeck was beckoning him to come aboard.
The casting off of ropes and heaving on the sweeps to get the vessel into the center of the sluggish current was comforting and familiar to Velander. The elemental in her body was helping, although with little enthusiasm.
Laron went down into the now-deserted lower deck and did a casting over the glass that was the ocular’s anchor. A rough but adequate viewing sphere materialized between his hands, then remained floating as he withdrew them. He spoke other words and did a few more minor castings.
A scene appeared in the flickering sphere, a scene containing a large, somewhat overweight, rather hairy and totally naked man; three rather well fed and naked young women; a few cushions; and a large, well-upholstered recliner. Laron stared at what they were doing for some time. Velander stared, too. There was no sound in her world, but presently she saw Laron put his hands to his mouth and call out. Druskarl came down the steps, froze for a moment, then hunkered down beside Laron. Feran arrived, hand in hand with the elemental. Norrieav arrived, an open wine jar in his hand. Martak climbed down next, closely followed by Hazlok, D’Atro, and Heinder.
Velander watched in disbelief and outrage as the men stamped their feet, pointed, made rude gestures, passed the jar of wine around, and apparently even whistled at the antics of the figures within the glowing sphere. Laron elbowed Druskarl in the ribs, pointed at the sphere, and said something that caused the eunuch to double over with laughter. You dirty little boy, thought Velander, quite disgusted with the behavior of her supposedly chivalrous champion. Hazlok suddenly dropped his trews and bared his pale but hairy buttocks at the sphere. Why? Velander wondered, but then she noticed the arms of the Gironal royal house on the wall. You filthy lecher, said Velander soundlessly to the dead king of Gironal. She had read that his queen was a pious and holy Metrologan priestess who barely knew the meaning of the word vice.
There was a massive lurch as the unguided Shadowmoon struck a sandbank.
Thanks to an hour stuck on the sandbank, they reached Gironal’s ruins somewhat later than sunset, but Miral was quite bright enough for navigation. As they cautiously edged out of the mouth of the Dioran River they were astounded to see a forest of masts rising out of the water. There were just masts and rigging, with no ships. All were silhouetted against the ruddy sky. There were dozens, probably hundreds of masts: a fleet of rigging with no ships.
“Could it be an entire fleet sunk here without a fight?” Laron wondered aloud as he stared across the harbor from the bow.
Faced with the unknown, Feran wisely turned back at once. The Shadowmoon dropped anchor just inside the mouth of the river. Druskarl was ordered out to investigate.
“I should go out, too, sir,” Laron said as Feran supervised the lowering of the masts in case they had to submerge in a hu
rry. “There may be sorcery and castings involved.”
“You stay here,” Feran said firmly, kneeling to tie down the rigging and ratlines on the deck. “I shall go with Druskarl in the corrak.”
“But, sir, I am an initiate—” Laron began.
“Look around you, your place is here!” Feran snapped back. “The men are near shitting themselves with fright. With a strong initiate aboard they will not be so fearful, and with the deckswain to run the ship and you to navigate, they will be able to take the Shadowmoon back to Helion if I am lost. Stay here, keep order, and let nobody do anything stupid.”
The corrak was launched, with Feran and Druskarl aboard, and they warily paddled out into the harbor. The nearest of the ghostly masts was no more than a hundred yards distant.
“Vidarian rigging, sir,” Druskarl said as they reached the mast and spars standing sentinel above the calm water. “The cordage and timber is from everywhere, but the knots, wrapping style, and deadeye locks give them away.”
“Most did not burn before sinking,” added Feran, reaching up to touch the furled sail still on the main lateen spar.
“Nearly all sank on an even keel. The harbor is shallow and the sediment soft. On a rough count, this is most of Emperor Banzalo’s fleet. There must have been quite a battle here.”
“It’s too dark to see the sunken wrecks properly, so we’ll have to come back in the morning. The men will be restless and frightened.”
“And so they should be. At least we shall have no trouble getting past Banzalo’s blockade.”
They spent the night on their guard, keeping a watch of two, and with everyone else sleeping clothed and near their weapons. Sunrise again revealed the ghastly forest of masts and rigging projecting above the calm, shallow waters of the harbor. Feran now launched the gigboat and dispatched it with Druskarl, Hazlok, and D’Arto. Druskarl dived to several wrecks, and confirmed that they were all Vidarian. Some had been rammed, a few had burned before sinking, but most had been scuttled. They finished their survey, scouted the nearby bays and coves, then returned to the Shadowmoon at midday. After hearing their report, Feran immediately ordered the schooner’s masts to be raised.
“Make sure you use the plain green mainsail,” he shouted as the crew scrambled into action. “Whoever did this may not be concerned with mere privateer looters.”
“Boatmaster, someone on the shore,” the lookout cried from the quarterdeck. “Five men, over there. They’re waving to us.”
“Waving what? Their fists? Battle-axes?”
“Just their arms, and they seem pleased to see us.”
Feran sent Druskarl in the gigboat to investigate while the mainsail was being untied, and by the time he returned with the castaways, the rigging was nearly ready and the anchor was being hauled up. Banzalo was barely recognizable, and the five survivors of the Vidarian fleet were emaciated and wearing rags.
“Battle galleys, hundreds of them,” Banzalo croaked as he was helped aboard. “Leave this place. Hurry!”
They towed the gigboat while the sail was being raised, then it was hoisted aboard as they passed between the masts of the lost fleet. It was not the best time to sail, and they had to struggle against the tide to get out into open water. Once clear of the harbor, the Shadowmoon headed north as the wind picked up, but there was no pursuit. Laron tended the survivors of the Vidarian fleet until the vessel was well clear of the coast.
“They came in out of the morning sun—there were battle galleys and dash galleys,” Banzalo babbled as Velander and Feran helped him below. “Out to sea there were support caravels and deepwater traders.”
“But who? Who were they?” Feran asked.
“Warsovran’s accursed fleet, his entire fleet! They caught us unawares. We’re so far from anywhere, who could have suspected? They came in with firepots. Nearly all of our men were ashore. It was a calm morning with no wind to fill the sails of my ships, but the galleys could go where they would because they have oars. The battle raged for hours, but the galleys were crammed with marines and as soon as they grappled with our traders it was sheer slaughter. No prisoners were taken. I gave my flagman the general order to scuttle all ships. Even in defeat I denied Warsovran my fighting ships.”
They laid Banzalo out on the mattress from Feran’s cabin, and Velander brought some of their dwindling store of wine. He continued his story between gulps, red wine spilling from his lips and onto the pillow.
“I had ordered that no food was to be taken ashore, so that my men would not desert to live in the ruins and dig gold for themselves. After a week of starvation most of those ashore gave themselves up to Warsovran’s fleet, but they were slaughtered where they stood and left to rot. The Damarian marines carried off our sacks of recovered gold, then burned everything that could not be carried away.”
The telling of the story had filled Banzalo with emotion, and tears now streamed down his cheeks and mingled with the wine. The other four castaways had been brought below by now, and Laron examined each in turn. All had wounds, but none were in immediate danger from them. Those who had survived were obviously the toughest.
“They hunted us with tracker dogs, they herded us like sheep. I rallied a few dozen men and made a stand against the tens of thousands that came after us. We killed two for every one of us who fell, but more kept coming. Finally I gave the order to split up and flee, then I dived into the river and hid among the slabs of a collapsed stone bridge where the dogs could not catch my scent. Four others had the same idea, and they are with me still. For thirteen days we lived on raw fish and rainwater while Warsovran’s sailors and marines hunted us; then they sailed away. I kept my men low, awaiting someone, anyone. Within hours of the last ship leaving the harbor, a few other survivors emerged, only to be trapped by a force of marines who had been left in hiding. Two days later a trader returned to pick up those Damarians who were left. We have been truly alone ever since.”
“We should get farther from the coast,” said Feran. “Warsovran may have caravels on patrol and the Shadowmoon is not as fast as them.”
“But they may attack my new colonies!” Banzalo cried. “We must warn them to stand ready.”
“I suspect they may already have done that, my lord,” replied Feran. “If they could crush your fleet, then your settlements must be ash.”
“We must go there at once, we have to warn them,” croaked Banzalo, trying to sit up.
“The settlements will be gone by now,” Feran pointed out, “and we are heading for Helion.”
“No! You will steer for the colonies. I order it.”
Feran had no choice. He steered back to the coast, trying to stay in water shallow enough to submerge safely. The boatmaster spent most of his time at the masthead or on the quarterdeck, scanning for Damarian ships. There were no other ships to be seen and no fires on the shore, but rather than seeming bleak and forbidding, this was the most welcome sight imaginable to everyone on the Shadowmoon.
The next day Velander was taking the air in the afternoon sun while Laron stood at the steering pole. For a time she sat on the gigboat, throwing him coquettish looks and smiles, but was rewarded with only nods. Finally she made the short journey to the small quarterdeck.
“Navigator, do you think the colonies will be all right?” she asked.
“No,” he replied simply, looking away to the distant coast.
“Why not?”
“Warsovran’s admiral knew just when and where to catch Banzalo’s fleet where they could not scatter once the battle was lost. If he had the power to locate and wipe out the Vidarian fleet, he would not have spared the colonies.”
“I see,” said the elemental, who had been planning to leave the Shadowmoon at the colonies. “What do you think has happened at the colonies?”
“Annihilated, probably. It is all very odd. According to the regent—”
“The emperor.”
“Whatever.”
Laron did not continue. The elemental waited. The si
lence lengthened.
“What is odd?” she finally asked.
“Banzalo said hundreds of galleys attacked, no prisoners were taken, and everything that might be of use to anyone was burned or smashed. Druskarl saw no evidence of mass slaughter ashore, however. Further, once Banzalo was safely drugged and asleep, I spoke with his four marines. There were no more than a dozen galleys in Warsovran’s squadron, and two thousand marines. Banzalo had ordered all but a couple of watchmen ashore from every ship. He was too greedy for melted gold, that is why he posted so few guards.
“The Damarians rammed three ships before they realized they were unresisting. About thirty ships were captured merely by putting a few sailors and an officer aboard. After a while the individual Vidarian watchmen began burning or sinking their ships to deny them to the Damarians. Meantime, Banzalo had gathered his men on the old wharf to repel the invaders. These same invaders had meantime landed marines in another bay, probably before dawn. These marched overland, waited for the Vidarians to gather to watch the naval battle, then attacked them from behind.”
Voyage of the Shadowmoon Page 22