by Джеффри Лорд
He had only his eating dagger; the first thing to get was a weapon. The guard assigned to him was too busy looking north to notice anything else until he found himself jerked off his feet and over the railing by two colossal arms. Blade barely had a chance to get a good grip on his new sword when two other guards ran at him, pikes leveled. He launched a kick at one that took him down with a smashed kneecap and opened the throat of the other with a backslash. Then he dashed forward, toward the galley smokestack, snatching up the stunned armorer’s paint pot on the run.
He whipped his arm up in an underarm swing, and the paint pot arched through the air like a cricket ball and dropped out of sight down the smoking galley stack. Blade was already backing away, dueling furiously with three sailors, when the galley stack spewed black smoke and orange flames. Screams floated up from below as the galley fires erupted all over the cooks. Smoke was already beginning to billow up through the hatches as Blade ran lightly up the ladder to the foc’sle, locked both arms around the windlass rope, and slid down it to the sea.
He landed near Charger’s stern, to be almost at once nearly knocked silly by the body of a mercenary guard that came sailing over the stem railing, a cutlass firmly rammed through its chest. He swam forward to the waist, keeping on the side of Charger away from the flagship for safety’s sake, then seized the mooring line of one of the boats bobbing there and hauled himself furiously up the side onto the deck of his own ship. It was the first time he had stood there in nearly ten days.
Another mercenary ran at him as he got to his feet. Blade, seeing that the man was trying to flee rather than trying to kill, sidestepped his clumsy lunge, tripped him, and pitched him head first over the side. It seemed now to Blade that all his trained perceptions and reflexes were operating at a higher pitch than ever before, now that the final moment of action had arrived. So it was a fighting machine that saw and heard and felt everything, and killed nearly everything in its path that sprang into combat.
One of the crew was trying to hack through the hawser holding Charger to the flagship. A soldier ran at him, ran him through, then died with Blade’s sword jutting out through his chest. Blade whipped the sword free just in time to hack down a javelin thrust at him and take off the wielder’s arm-on the backswing. Another man darted past Blade, snatched up the fallen axe, swung it down on the hawser. Blade in his turn snatched up the javelin and hurled it to bring down a soldier backing a sailor against the foremast, then whirled around to face two more soldiers.
One was apparently the commander of the guards aboard Charger, judging from his gilded helmet and jeweled sword hilt. He was also a dangerously effective opponent. His long sword darted in and out; Blade frantically parried both the officer’s lightning thrusts and the clumsier slashes of the soldier-then the hawser parted with a twang. The deck lurched slightly, throwing the officer off balance long enough for the man with the axe to whip around and bury the head in the other’s back. Going down, the officer blocked his subordinate for long enough to let Blade get through the man’s clumsy guard and take him in the throat. The two soldiers fell across each other, writhed briefly, then lay still in the blood sluicing across the deck.
Blade suddenly realized that the man who had chopped through the hawser and then cut down the officer was Brora, that the deck was clear of living soldiers, and that Charger was now nearly fifty yards clear of the flagship. He looked back toward the bigger vessel in time to see the foremast boom into a column of flame that spouted above even the black smoke pouring up from below, then turned back to Brora. The sailor was drenched with sweat and the blood oozing from half a dozen minor wounds, but grinned as he looked at Blade.
«Back to our true colors, aye, Captain Blahyd?»
«Yes. Order the men to the oars. I’m going aloft.» Blade dropped his sword to the deck, grasped the ratlines, and scrambled upward toward the maintop. Once there, he at last had the view and at least a little of the time he needed to look about him and see what was happening.
The far northern end of the pirate fleet had dissolved into a chaos of burning ships and others that moved purposefully among them-galleys of all sizes, painted a green so dark that they were barely visible against the sea. The shorebased siege engines had apparently ceased fire, because of too much risk of hitting friendly ships. Farther out, off the tip of the peninsula, a mass of merchant vessels and sailing warships was sliding into view, following as close on the heels of the galleys as the fluky wind would permit. War engines on their decks were still busy, and Blade saw more of the white spouts of falling projectiles creeping down the pirates’ line. The royal navy of Royth was riding in to the attack.
And if he could persuade his crew to resist the natural temptation to simply out oars and run for it, Charger could do her share and more. If the galleys on the beach and anchored at the south end of the line had a chance to pull themselves into battle formation, short-handed as they were they might put up a murderous fight. The fleet of Royth might be crippled beyond repair even if victorious. But if Charger lived up to her name, hurling herself into the middle of the assembling galleys, she might sow mighty confusion among them. And the royal warfleet might well sweep the whole length of the pirate fleet before effective resistance developed. Blade decided it was worth trying, slim as it left their own chances of survival. He scrambled down to the deck, and called Brora to him.
«Brora, we’re going to attack the southern end of the pirate fleet.»
Brora turned pale and swallowed, then nodded. He didn’t need to spend much more time than Blade thinking out what Charger might do-and at what cost. He turned away, bawling orders to the oarmaster and the rowers. The beat of the oars quickened, and Blade felt the timbers under his feet begin to throb with that beat.
So far, no one had connected the sudden attack from Royth with Blade, and Charger was moving away unmolested. Behind her the flagship was now ablaze for nearly half her length, and Blade could see the splashes made by sailors hurling themselves from her high decks into the sea. On shore, people were swarming down the beaches and scrambling aboard ships, and a number of the anchored galleys of the inner line were already underway. There was no sign of Sea Witch or of Cayla’s allies. When Cayla appeared, with or without allies, Blade knew he would have a fight on his hands.
A large galley with black and orange checked sails was turning almost broadside to them as her oarsmen settled to their beat. Blade ran aft and stationed himself alongside the tillermen, while Brora ran forward to speak to the oarmaster and then manned the catapult on the bow. Charger’s head came around slightly to starboard, aiming for a point nicely calculated to intercept the other galley. The oarsmen bent to their work, the oars thumping in their sockets and the foam curling higher and higher alongside as they worked up to their racing stroke.
The men of the galley ahead had only a brief minute to realize that the other galley racing down on them meant to attack. Blade saw men running on her deck, heard Charger’s catapult twang and spray a shower of lead slugs into the men on the enemy’s deck. Some of them died, others threw themselves flat. Those who had thrown themselves flat were just beginning to rise when Charger’s ram crashed through her opponent’s oars and into her side amidships. Oars cracked, timbers splintered, the enemy’s mainmast snapped and went over the side, dragging half the tiller crew with it, men mangled by the ram or by the flailing oars howled and screamed below decks. Brora snapped out orders, and Charger’s oars went into reverse, pulling her free of the other galley. She was heeling over and sagging low in the water even before Charger had come about on a new course in search of a new victim.
This new victim was a smaller galley, as nimble as Charger and expecting the attack. Her oarsmen worked furiously, swinging her bows-on to the approaching Charger. Blade grinned. He had suggested one or two unorthodox tactics to Brora, who had trained his crew appropriately. Now Brora gave the necessary orders. Charger’s bow swung until she was aiming her ram down the side of the approaching enemy, then he
bellowed, «In all oars, starboard!» The entire starboard crew jerked their oars in through the ports and everybody aboard Charger braced themselves as she ploughed along her opponent’s side, snapping and splintering the whole bank of oars on that side. The archers on Charger’s deck had time to add to the enemy’s discomfiture with three volleys, then the two ships were pulling apart, Charger building up speed again, the other limping away crab-wise.
The catapult fired again, this time hurling a huge wad of oil-soaked rope across the deck of a small merchantman passing under their lee only fifty yards away. A pinnace with a dozen men in it scuttled across Charger’s bow, miscalculated its distance, and was trampled underfoot by the rushing galley. Blade saw the men spilled into the water and thrashing wildly to avoid Charger’s oars, but there was no time to pick up survivors. Arrows, catapult bolts, and stones were beginning to splash down about Charger or crash and chunk into her decks as the crews of the ships around her realized that she was an enemy.
A galley came backing off the beach now, moving slowly, with only about half her oars in action. She was keeping such a poor lookout that Charger easily darted in and rammed her in the stern, smashing her rudder, then threw a firepot onto her deck as she tried to turn under oars alone. Three down! Blade began to wonder whether the arms of the rowers-or Charger’s seams-could take the strain of much more high-speed maneuvering and violent ramming.
Then Brora squalled incoherently, with the note of panic in his voice sounding so loud that Blade spun about as though an assassin were striking at his back, whipping his sword free in the same instant. Racing toward them out of the smoke pall laid across the water by the burning flagship was Sea Witch. Cayla was clearly visible, perched on the bow just above a ram that was half-submerged in green water by the speed of Witch’s passage. She had her arms stretched out toward the sea, and as Blade watched, his jaw set, she raised her arms.
Five monstrous fanged heads rose out of the sea, turning inquiringly on the ends of twenty-foot lengths of scaled green neck. Blade saw those heads turn toward Charger, felt the glare of five pairs of angry red eyes sear him. Then he instinctively stepped back from the railing as the heads and necks fell back into the water. Five mounds of water rose up where they had been, five mounds arrowing straight for Charger. Here were Cayla and her allies-here were the Serpent Priestess and the Serpent Guardians-she had summoned them out of the depths of the sea, out of the depths of nightmare. And here was a last deadly battle for life itself.
CHAPTER 21
Whatever arcane skills had conjured these beasts out of their lairs, they were still flesh and blood. Blade was the first to realize this and feel his own cold fear fade, but Brora was the first to act. He leaped back onto the foc’sle where the catapult stood loaded for another shot, swung it around on its pivot, and jerked the firing lanyard. The bolt whistled across the narrowing gap of water and struck one of the creatures a glancing blow on the neck, ripping away scales and part of the long crest of bony spines that ran down its back. It hissed with a fury like a boiler releasing steam, opened its mouth in a wider gape, and came on. But now there was blood flowing down its neck, a green, thick, gluey ichon, whose foul reek came even across the water.
Seeing one of the creatures wounded put new heart in Charger’s crew. Arrows whistled from bows, bounced off scales, fell into the churning water. Other sailors snatched up javelins and shields and braced themselves to throw.
«Aim for the eyes!» Blade roared. «Ramming speed! Tiller hard a-port!» Charger heeled over sharply, throwing some of the men off their feet. Blade was aiming away to the right of the approaching monsters, toward Sea Witch and Cayla herself. Slay their mistress and guide, and the serpents would be reduced to mindless hulks of muscle and ferocity, a menace to all and therefore the foe of all. They would not stand or survive in the face of a hundred ships, whatever they might do to Charger.
He stared at Sea Witch, trying to make out Cayla in the smoke that hung thicker and thicker over the water. She no longer rode her ship’s prow like a figurehead; was that she, the slim figure amidships? Yes! Blade ran forward to the catapult and slapped Brora on the arm, pointing toward Cayla. The sailor nodded. «Aye, ‘tis finally time to reckon things up with that she-demon!» The catapult went spung and its bolt splintered a section of railing beside the figure on Witch’s deck. But the figure only waved a mocking arm, and then the five monsters were on Charger and it was time to fight them off before turning against their mistress.
Charger heaved as though caught in a tidal wave as three of the creatures rose under her, tilting so far over that one whole bank of oars thrashed the air futilely. The fighting men on deck either held onto things or were tossed wildly down the length of her deck. Two of them clawed at splintered lengths of railing, missed, went over the side with a splash. A fanged head turned their way, lifted, dipped, plunged into the sea in a spray of foam and blood, its hisses drowning their screams. Then Charger lurched back the other way, and those who had kept their feet during the first heave went sailing into the bilges in a clatter of weapons and gear.
All except Blade and Brora. They clung like monkeys in a tree to the catapult, and as one of the creatures threw a yard-thick coil into the air, skewered it with a pointblank bolt. The air split apart with a hiss of agony, foam and blood showered them, and the writhing creature hurled itself at them, jaws opened to seize, the head smashing like a battering ram into the catapult. It flew to pieces, and in the seconds when the halfstunned creature’s head lay motionless in the wreckage, Blade lunged forward and drove his sword deep through one glaring red eye into the brain. The beast convulsed in one gigantic jerk that whipped the six-foot head forward almost to Blade’s feet, fanged jaws snapping in a final spasm, then lurched over the side and vanished.
Blade and Brora bent to pick up axes-more suitable for this butcher’s work because more robust-then spun around as screams sounded from aft. The oarsmen had snatched up their weapons and armor and were pouring up onto the deck. The fanged jaws closed on one sailor, crumpling his armor and crunching his bones in a single motion; twenty feet of its body swept like a giant flail across the deck, knocking another half-dozen off their feet. One brave soul rolled clear, snatched up a javelin, ran forward, drove it into the back of the serpent’s skull. The monster dropped its first victim in bloody rags on the deck, turned to confront this new opponent. As it did so Blade and Brora ran in, one on each side, waving their axes. The two broad iron heads came down, splintering the skull and chopping through the spine and a foot into the massive body. The creature died without a further motion, the sheer weight of its body dragging it over the side.
With two of her allies slain and a third wounded, Blade wondered for a moment if Cayla might not call them off for a space. But it seemed that the woman on Sea Witch’s deck was now driven by a lust for blood and vengeance only a little less mindless than the hunger and fury which drove her serpents. At least she could guide them into a more cunning attack than the headlong charge they had used until now.
This time, the three survivors came on together. It seemed that the sea itself had risen against Charger as the creatures hurled themselves out of the water to smash down on her decks like falling trees, pulping the men caught underneath, sweeping others overboard, flailing and thrashing about. Their weight dragged Charger down until her lee rail was only a few feet above the water, their hissing deafened, their musky odor clawed at Blade’s nose and throat, their thrashing made the deck seams gape and the hull timbers groan.
Blade saw that he and Brora were alone on Charger’s deck now and that the ship herself was coming apart under the punishment the three monsters were inflicting. A few more minutes of this, and he and Brora would be swimming for their lives in the water, where any of the serpents could pluck them up as easily as a fish. He had forgotten about the larger battle, forgotten even to care whether Royth was winning or losing, in the struggle against the serpents.
He and Brora backed as far forward as t
hey could go and looked at each other. Even now, Brora hefted his axe and grinned savagely. Under their feet the deck gave another lurch, and Blade felt the bow rise higher out of the water as the creatures writhed their way aft and pressed the stern down into the water. The water would be flooding through the stern windows now, dragging Charger deeper and deeper.
There were a few remaining catapult bolts lying on the tilting deck along with the rest of the debris. Six feet long and steel-tipped, they were clumsy but serviceable spears. Blade bent to pick one up, saw Brora do the same. He hefted his, testing it for balance. The sun flashed on its head, flashed into the eyes of one of the beasts until now too concerned with obeying its orders to smash the ship down into the sea. It lifted its head, opened its mouth, swelled out its sides and throat with a deadly hissing. Then it lunged.
Blade and Brora leaped aside. Blade saw his companion backed up against the opposite railing, saw his mouth open in a scream as the creature’s head swung toward him. Then Blade shut everything else out of his mind, concentrating only on placing his thrust and his axe blow as he hurled himself forward for the kill.
He moved so fast that his bolt skittered across the scales of the head, flew out of his hand and over the side. He sprawled headlong across the creature’s back as his axe came down, chopping through scales and flesh and into the spine. The hiss of the creature in its death agony almost deafened him, and the putrid green mud that gushed forth from the wound seared his skin like scalding water and choked him like the odor of a cesspool. Halfblinded, he clawed at the creature’s scales for a handhold as it reared up, until the dangling head was thirty feet above the deck. Then the serpent twisted in its final convulsion, flinging Blade high into the air like a stone from a sling.