The two deacons bowed to Laron. He looked them over. They had the bearing and confidence of trained fighters, but there had been no shortage of trained fighters in the settlements.
“Regent Banzalo’s fleet was wiped out, and Banzalo himself is dead,” said Laron, trying to give an idea of the odds rather than comment on the futility of making a stand on Helion. “Warsovran is alive, and he reached Silverdeath before I did.”
The news was as bad as it could possibly be. It was some time before Terikel was able to untangle her emotions sufficiently to reply.
“I do not see Worthy Velander or Druskarl on the deck,” she ventured softly, fearing yet more bad news.
“Velander’s soul was destroyed at Larmentel, but her body is currently occupied by a worthy tenant. I sent her away to a safe place, with Druskarl as escort.” Laron did not feel inclined to mention that Druskarl had probably betrayed his trust. There was already more than enough gloom in his news.
“Again the Metrologan numbers shrink,” Terikel sighed. “I have secretly sent the archives and most of our books to Scalticar with my four new priestesses. It is only a matter of time before Wrasovran attacks Helion.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Helion’s temple and vineyards are all the Metrologans have left in the world, and after what the Greenfoam’s people said about the fate of the colonies, nobody has been willing to give me a fair price for them. Having heard your version of the story, however, I think I shall put my new followers aboard the first available ship and abandon whatever we can’t carry to whoever wants it.”
“Ah, there I can help,” said Laron, bowing to her again. “Aboard the Shadowmoon is gold collected in Torea, and part of it is yours by agreement.”
“Gold?” replied Terikel, who had long ago given up hope that this promise would ever mature. “How much is there?”
“In weight, six hundred pounds.”
The astonished Terikel was led onto the Shadowmoon and down belowdecks, where the gold was stored. Laron remained on the quarterdeck, looking around the harbor. In spite of all the refugees who had streamed off the island, it was still a busy place. Opportunists, vagabonds, thieves, and tricksters were flooding over from other ports on the Placidian rim to take advantage of the breakdown of authority and the confusion. Terikel came back up from the hatchway, holding a handful of gold.
“At a single stroke you have saved us,” she said in wonder, hardly daring to take her eyes off the coins.
“Then leave tomorrow morning,” replied Laron.
“We shall leave as soon as we can pack—”
“Pack tonight, sail on the first tide tomorrow.”
“And Roval is still locked up. We need to free him and take him with us.”
“Learned Terikel, this is getting to be very complicated, and we have little time.”
“Roval must come with us. I’ve been visiting him every day in the lockup, and—Look, he just comes with us, and there’s an end to it.”
“Then we need to free him tonight, and tonight’s schedule is filling rapidly. This reminds me of Acre, just before the final siege.”
“Acre? I do not know the place.”
“If you did I would be very surprised. I sense impending doom hanging over this place—but no matter, and first things first. Is the division of the gold fair?”
“Laron, if you can be trusted to bring any gold back here you can be trusted to divide it fairly. You could have gone to any port on the Placidian Ocean’s rim; you need never have returned here.”
“I gave my word of honor, and honor is all that I truly value. Here I am.”
Terikel removed a gold seal ring from her finger, put it into Laron’s hand, and closed his cold fingers over it.
“This belonged to a Metrologan priestess who died here years ago. It is probably the last in existence. I think that you should have it.”
“Worthy Elder, I cannot accept this,” he said, holding the ring out to her. “It belongs to your Order.”
She took the ring but slipped it onto his finger before he could withdraw his hand. “Take it, Laron, because there will never be another Metrologan Brotherhood priest. Only my new, merged Order’s priests, which are not the same—”
“Quiet!” barked Laron, suddenly alert.
He stared out into the darkness, holding his hands to his ears. Miral’s light was blocked by the clouds, but there was little wind and the ocean was placid.
“Muffled oars,” said Laron. “Many, many muffled oars … . Feran, Hazlok, cast off, now! Everyone else to the sweeps.”
Before a minute was past, the Shadowmoon was clear of the pier and moving into deeper water. By now the approaching squadron was in sight, and alarm gongs and trumpets were sounding all across the island. Huge, sleek shapes with raised boarding ramps loomed before the Shadowmoon, and ballista shots flung up the water around it.
“We’re smaller than they expect,” said Feran as he and Laron heaved at the steering pole. “They’re misjudging our range.”
The Shadowmoon passed between two dash galleys five times its length and attracted a shower of arrows. A battle galley loomed ahead of them, but as they steered to avoid it a boarding ramp was swung out over the water. As it passed the Shadowmoon it smashed into the mainmast, and a dozen marines dropped onto the deck before the far-bigger ship had slid past on its way to the wharves. Several more marines missed, and sank at once with the weight of their armor.
Terikel’s two deacons abandoned their sweeps and drew their axes, engaging the marines who were scattered along the length of the Shadowmoon’ s decks. Laron cross-blocked the downward chop of an ax, seized the arm that held it, then grasped the man’s belt and flung him over Feran’s head and into the schooner’s wake. The sailor Heinder traded several blows with a marine before an ax chopped into his side from behind. Staggering around, he took a chop to the shoulder before wrapping a brawny arm around the marine’s neck and tumbling over the rail with him. Another marine tried to take the quarterdeck, but Laron cross-blocked again, twisting the ax out of his hands and thrusting the handle’s butt into his face.
Norrieav and Hazlok fought back-to-back, doing little damage to the veteran marines but at least staying alive. D’Atro stood just inside the hatchway, defending it with a pair of facing hatchets. Just then another battle galley glided past, sending another shower of arrows into the Shadowmoon. A marine and both temple guards went down, crippled or dead. The Acreman sailor Martak stood on the foredeck, using the mast as a shield as a marine chopped at him. His own ax bounced off armor, but he had no armor against the knife that was flung from the maindeck and into his stomach. He collapsed across the spar, and an ax-blow to the neck ended his life.
Even though four had died on each side, the sailors were not professional warriors. Leaving two to engage Norrieav and Hazlok, the remaining six marines converged on Laron. In spite of being fast, strong, and immune to injuries that would kill most people, he was not proof against being hacked to pieces by six axes. With no sails up and nobody rowing, the schooner was moving only because of a current. Feran abandoned the steering pole and drew his ax, but as he stepped forward he noticed that the Shadowmoon was settling in the water. Someone had opened the ports below deck. Terikel. Turning immediately, he chopped through the two ropes holding the bracebar. The remains of the rigging hinged forward, crashing down.
The horrified marines also now realized that the schooner was sinking. They were, unlike the crew, fully armored. They began frantically stripping off their helmets and plate, but the crewmen had not stopped fighting. The Shadowmoon was designed to sink very quickly. The ruddy light of burning ships and buildings illuminated the Shadowmoon’s final moments on the surface, then it vanished, to the cheers of another passing battle galley.
The island was effectively in Warsovran’s hands by midnight, but it was not until dawn that he came ashore to survey the damage. Barely two hundred Toreans had survived the fighting, and the rest of the island’s population
was drawn from the entire rim of the Placidian Ocean. Eleven ships had been sunk, and about a quarter of Port Wayside’s buildings had been burned. As a prize of war, it left a lot to be desired.
“The elite stalkers who came ashore ahead of the galleys, killed all the lookouts at their posts,” Admiral Griffa proudly explained to Warsovran. “The locals had no warning before we were actually in the harbor.”
“This is all looking too easy,” Warsovran commented doubtfully. “The ambassadors aboard the fleet were told that we triumphed against superior odds. Make sure they see the remains of a great battle.”
“It will be done.”
“Have you found their regent?”
“One of the prisoners said that Banzalo died off the coast of Torea, apparently from loss of blood. The acting regent was killed in the fighting for Port Wayside.”
“What about the Metrologans?”
“According to your instructions, the temple was spared. Scouts report that two dozen militiamen in their pay have barricaded themselves in the place, and they have crossbows. One scout was killed; another brought back a bolt in his shoulder as well as his report.”
“Pity. I was hoping to have just one leader for this morning’s show.”
“Oh, we have a priest, Your Majesty. Well, that is to say, we found a youth wearing a Metrologan priest’s seal ring. Several of the islanders say that all the priests are dead and that he must have stolen it, but he insists that he is the only Metrologan left alive.”
“Bring him to me.”
Laron was brought to Warsovran in chains, still wearing the ring Terikel had given him. His beard had been washed off, and he had reset the circlet and oracle sphere that he wore for invisibility.
“You look very young for a priest,” said Warsovran.
“Island life agrees with me,” replied Laron.
“You say that you are the only Metrologan left on Helion.”
“Yes.”
“Where are the priestesses?”
“They were trying to escape on a schooner when your ships attacked. It was sunk in the harbor, with no survivors.”
“The Vodaren’s master reported seeing a schooner sink, Your Majesty,” Forteron added.
“Your Majesty, there is no need for more killing,” said Laron. “Those in the temple are only servants and militiamen. I can convince them to surrender if you promise to spare their lives.”
“But I am sworn to wipe out all Metrologans,” Warsovran replied with a shallow smile.
“Then kill me after the temple surrenders and you will have succeeded.”
“Well, Griffa, here we have someone who thinks ahead,” responded Warsovran. “Very well, try to get this place looking like a battlefield, then bring the ambassadors ashore. I believe this young priest can save us a great deal of trouble.”
Warsovran was the only person alive who knew that the Metrologans had been studying methods to destroy Silverdeath for the past thousand years. Warsovran did not know that all Metrologans who knew about that project had perished with Torea, so he continued to hunt the survivors. He liked the irony that an order dedicated to Silverdeath’s destruction would instead fall victim to the fantastic machine.
The marines were set to work putting armor on the civilian dead and arranging the bodies to give the impression of heavy fighting. When the ambassadors finally came ashore, they saw burned-out, half-sunken ships in the harbor and bodies littering the piers and streets. The marines escorted them to where Warsovran waited with several guards and a single prisoner. The emperor was holding what looked like a mailshirt of strange and intricate jewelry.
“Most of you are from kingdoms that are even now raising armies to attack Diomeda, which is mine by right of conquest,” Warsovran began. “Thus I have decided to give you a little demonstration of my powers, so that you may give your monarchs fair warning.”
Warsovran drew his ax and held it high.
“This youth here, is the last of the Metrologan Order. He was captured in the fighting and now awaits my pleasure. This is my pleasure.”
With that, he chopped Laron through the ribs with his ax. Laron gaped at the blade as it was withdrawn, then had the presence of mind to topple to the ground with his eyes closed. He felt his chains being removed.
“The Metrologan Order is now no more,” continued Warsovran. “Correct?”
Several heads nodded.
“Of course, but I am master of both life and death. I can bring him back.”
Laron was held up and Warsovran maneuvered Silverdeath onto him. As the ambassadors watched, the metal melted and flowed, dissolving beneath Laron’s clothing and covering his skin with a sheen of silver. Laron became animate, and got to his feet.
“Serve me!” commanded Warsovran. “I am Melidian Warsovran.”
Silverdeath bowed to him. “Your hands applied me. Command me, as I serve and protect.”
“Are your powers at their greatest?”
“This host is damaged. I must repair it.”
“How long will it take?”
“Moments.”
Warsovran turned to his audience. “As you can see, I can bring the dead back to life, but I am no mere hedgerow healer. Across there, is a small temple where a few militiamen have gathered for a last stand against my marines. I could order that they be attacked and the battle would be over in a half hour, but I do not like to waste my men. I could starve them out, but that would take weeks.”
“The host has been optimized,” Silverdeath reported.
“Instead I have decided upon a humane method to pacify those in the temple. First, however, I wish to provide another entertainment for your diversion. Ambassador Raichamur of Vindic, take this ax.”
The ambassador hefted the weapon clumsily. The axes of his country were lighter, with more sharply curved blades, and they were balanced differently. Still, an ax was an ax.
“Now, strike me with that fine Torean weapon,” said Warsovran.
The ambassador stared at him, but otherwise did not move. Warsovran waved the marines back.
“Come on, swing,” laughed the emperor. “Surely your king would be delighted, were you to kill me.”
The ambassador considered. There was some trick here, perhaps another demonstration of the magical weapon’s powers. After all, Raichamur was the ambassador of Vindic, the most powerful Acreman kingdom on the Placidian Ocean, a man of importance. Warsovran would not allow him to be harmed. Raichamur swung the ax.
A flash of white light from Silverdeath’s eyes sliced the ambassador’s arm from his body, then slashed down through his rib cage. The ambassador’s body fell apart, messily. Two more ambassadors who had been standing behind the Vindican noble also collapsed in bloody heaps. The building behind them tumbled down in ruins with a noisy rumble.
There was understandable consternation among the surviving ambassadors. Several closed their eyes, resigning themselves to what was hopefully to be a quick and merciful death. Others tried to hide behind each other, and two merely turned and fled. These were quickly caught and returned by the marines.
“Silverdeath does not like attempts upon my life,” said Warsovran. “Make sure that everybody knows.” He turned back to Silverdeath, pointing to the temple. “Silverdeath, destroy my enemies. Use fire-circles.”
“The feat is at the limit of my powers,” warned Silverdeath.
“Do it.”
Silverdeath began to withdraw from Laron. The surface of his silvered skin began to crawl like a swarm of ants, and a sphere of reflectivity began to expand where his head had been. Laron collapsed as the sphere detached from him and began to float away to the south, in the direction of the Metrologan temple. Warsovran beckoned the ambassadors over to where Laron lay on the cobblestones. Two marines heaved the youth to his feet and a third removed his tunic. There was no trace of a wound on his skimpy, hairless chest.
“You see, I can cure,” Warsovran declared, “and look at his face. All the pimples are gone as well. Wh
ether they stay gone is another matter. But in all seriousness, were an aging monarch to present himself to me, I could restore him to the prime of youth in return for, say, a border province, or a thousand stout trading ships. Remember, too, that I can and will restore myself.”
The ambassadors might not have been entirely convinced, but they certainly were taken aback. Laron was confused by his brief encounter with Silverdeath. Being a vampyre, his body would have restored itself after a half day, and he had only collapsed when struck because it had been what Warsovran had expected.
Warsovran continued to harangue the ambassadors. Half an hour passed. People began to get restive, but nobody dared to cross Warsovran after what had just happened. On the western horizon Miral’s disk was already low. The rings touched the horizon, then the disk. It was not long before only Miral’s rings were still up. Laron knew that he was about to collapse again, with every appearance of being dead. Warsovran would be exceedingly embarrassed.
“Remember, I can both kill and cure!” Warsovran was declaring. “My powers are those of the gods in the moonworlds. Look to that temple if you would see—”
A fire-circle detonated, spilling a blinding column of light from the sky for a moment, and sending a roiling cascade of smoke, dust, debris, and hot air boiling out from the southern part of Helion. Heat blazed against their faces for a moment, then the blast of thunder hit them. The target of Warsovran’s attack was quite invisible, and a rain of ash, dust, and pebbles began to fall.
“Name me an army, name me a fortress that could stand against such forces!” Warsovran shouted above the rumble.
Nobody was inclined to try, and Warsovran went on to explain exactly what he would do to any monarchs who stood against him, and in what order. By now Laron was being hurried away by two marines. They were taking him to the island’s watch-house, the only prison on Helion.
“How does it feel to be the last Metrologan?” laughed a marine.
“Aye, next time the emperor kills you, Silverdeath won’t be used to bring you back to life,” said his companion.
By now the streets were sufficiently empty for Laron’s purposes, as everyone had rushed off to view the fire-circle. The vampyre twisted in their grip, pushed the guard on the right against a brick wall, and lunged for the neck of the guard on the left.
Voyage of the Shadowmoon Page 28