“You really think anyone’ll come through the Guardians in this weather?”
“Not anyone intelligent,” Markos said. “But when has that stopped the Fey?”
He moved away from his perch. Blasse came over, scanned the river for a moment, and sighed. He didn’t want to be out in that weather any more than Markos did. “For the last week, there’s been nothing. You think the rumors were true?”
It was the closest the group came to questioning Doron.
“Sometimes I wonder,” Markos said. “But what if we give up and the next day the Fey ships come through the Guardians?”
Blasse grunted. He wasn’t a deep thinker. But, like Markos, he’d lost his entire family to the Fey when he was a boy. He’d spent most of his adulthood living in parts of the Isle where there weren’t a lot of Fey. Those parts were growing scarcer.
“I saw a lot of those half-bird Fey creatures,” Markos said. “That Hawk with the woman on its back spent half the morning sitting on that stone over there, staring at me.”
“Should have killed it.”
“How do you kill those things? Shoot it through the bird heart or through the Fey heart?”
Blasse shrugged. “Maybe both.”
“Besides, I’m saving my killing for the half-breed.”
“The Fey’ll know you did it.”
“They’ll know we all did it. That’s why we got to follow Doron’s plan.”
They weren’t allowed to discuss the plan any more than that, at least not out here.
Blasse grunted again and blew some water off his lips. “I hope none of them bird creatures come around tonight. I’m getting itchy enough to make ‘em into target practice.”
Markos ran his fingers over his eyes. He was wet and cold. He’d be glad to get back to the abandoned kirk and sit in front of the small fire the men allowed at night. Some sleep, and he’d be back in the morning.
There were other archers stationed at other points along the river. If Markos or his group didn’t stop the Fey ships with the half-breed on them, someone else would. The Queen’s brother would never make it to Jahn.
As he moved his fingers away from his eyes, he turned his head toward the Guardians. Something black peeked out of the tunnel made by the tallest stones.
“My God,” he said. His heart started pounding. He hadn’t believed, until this moment, that the half-breed would actually come.
“What?” Blasse asked.
Markos pointed. Blasse leaned forward and squinted. The black shape that Markos had seen revealed itself as the prow of a ship. It was riding the chop, sails up, spray surging over the bow as if the water alone could wash the Fey off the ship.
Blasse stepped back, his hands shaking. He tried to pull his bow off his shoulder, but his fingers slipped on the string. It slid down his arm, but he caught it before it clattered to the ground.
Above them a Hawk with a Fey on its back swooped over the two men, uttering its distinctive cry. Markos watched it for half a moment, recognized the woman on its back, and groaned. Had she heard the remarks about target practice? If so, they might be dead soon.
But she didn’t seem interested in them. Instead, she flew directly for the ship. Markos watched until she became a speck in the air, riding the currents, the tips of her wings upturned. After a moment he realized that anyone watching her from the ship itself would see only a hawk, not the Fey riding it.
He thought that strange, almost as if she were concealing herself.
“I think there’s only one ship.” Blasse was trying, with his shaking hands, to thread an arrow in his bow.
Markos pulled his bow down and looked too. Blasse seemed to be right. Unless the others were farther back in the Guardians. But that seemed dangerous. Ships that came through the Guardians usually followed closely in each other’s wake so that they could catch the same currents.
Markos gripped his bow. His hands weren’t shaking. He had waited all his life for this moment. He threaded his first arrow and watched as the ship drew closer.
It rode forward, taking the waves as if it were daring them to overturn it. At times he could barely see the ship for the spray. The ship had cleared the last of the Guardians and was making its way from the harbor into the river. The Cardidas was wide and flanked on both sides by cliffs. But the ship still had to follow a relatively narrow path to take it to Jahn.
As it came closer, he cursed the way that the rain interfered with his ability to see below him. Blasse had grown silent too, aiming at the ship, his hands still shaking. Only Markos seemed to have any chance of hitting anything.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “If we miss, there are others upstream who’ll get them.”
Blasse nodded. He rested his elbows on the stone ledge before him, and that eased his shaking somewhat. Markos decided that was a good position, and did the same.
The ship was moving into range.
Other bird-Fey were flying above it, almost as if they were leading it forward, cawing and shouting. He couldn’t make out the words, not that he would have understood them if he did. He’d always made it a point not to learn the Fey’s cursed language.
“How do we tell which one is him?” Blasse asked.
Good question. For some reason no one had thought of it until now. And it was an important question too because they didn’t have that many arrows, and he didn’t know how long it would take before those Gull-Fey flew up to the bowl and tried to kill them.
“Let’s shoot the guy who’s steering,” Markos said. “That’ll slow them down. If the half-breed is on the deck, the others’ll rush to protect him. If he’s not, he’ll come up fast and then we’ll get him.”
Blasse nodded. They waited in silence for the ship to pull closer. Markos felt his stomach quiver, but his hands remained steady. The cry his father had made when they set fire to the house resounded in his memory. That and the laughter.
The ship was in position.
“All right,” Markos said. “Now.”
He had the target in his sights. He pulled the arrow back and released it as Blasse did the same. They moved in unison, reaching behind their backs for another arrow from the quiver, threading it, and shooting before the first arrows had found their marks.
They hadn’t needed the second shots. The first arrows both hit the Fey behind the wheel and he fell, startling those around him. Markos could hear the shouts echoing off the canyon walls. The few Fey lying oddly against the rail didn’t move—were they already dead?—but some of their supporters did.
The men in the middle didn’t seem to move at all. But one, toward the front, looked up. He scanned the walls of the cliffs, and then his gaze stopped. The ship was directly below Markos when the man pointed to the hiding spot.
Markos had another arrow lined up. So did Blasse.
“That’s got to be him,” Markos said.
“We have to be sure,” Blasse said.
The bird-Fey were still moving forward but a few of the Fey on the ship had moved to the edge of the deck and were shouting at them, and waving their arms.
“We don’t have time to be sure,” Markos said.
And then it seemed as if God smiled on him. Two of the Fey grabbed the pointer’s arm and tried to pull him below deck.
“You’re right,” Blasse said. “That’s him.”
Together they aimed, and let their arrows fly.
FIVE
THE FIRST ARROWS killed the Captain. Gift had been standing beside Wave as one of the arrows went through his throat. The Navigators around him screamed and a few seemed to lose their concentration. Some of the Fey behind the Sailors ducked.
Gift looked toward his left as two more arrows hit the deck. They had come from the cliffs. He scanned until he saw the bowl where his parents had negotiated the treaty that had united the Fey and the Islanders. He thought he saw movement.
He pointed, and as he did, two Fey grabbed him, and tried to pull him backwards. He shook them off. The ship was out of con
trol, heading toward the rocky shores.
“You!” he said, shoving one of the people away from him. “Get the wheel. Get us on course.”
“I don’t—”
“Do it!”
The man ran toward the wheel. The other was still holding Gift. He shoved the man away as more arrows flew, dangerously close.
There was no way of telling how many archers stood above them.
“We have to get this thing out of here,” Gift said. “Get those people off the deck. They need to help the Sailors. Make sure the Navigators are working—and all of you, call to the Gull Riders.”
An arrow hit the man Gift had been yelling at. The tip protruded from the man’s stomach and he looked at it, stupidly, as if he couldn’t believe it was there. Then he fell to his knees, and watched the blood run with the rain across the deck.
Arrows landed near Gift, and he suddenly realized he was the target. The man he had directed to the wheel was trying to turn it, but not doing a very good job. Gift hurried toward him, figuring that as long as he moved, he was not in any danger.
Skya had come on deck. Gift cursed softly. He didn’t want her here. He hurried to her, put his arms around her, and pushed her toward the deck house.
“They’ll kill you,” he said.
She raised a single eyebrow. “Looks to me like someone is trying to kill you.”
The man was still struggling with the wheel and the ship was losing momentum. If no one did anything, they’d be stuck here, easy targets for the archers above.
Skya saw it too, and went for the wheel, but Gift held her back. “Wave died there.”
“We’ll all die here if someone doesn’t do something.”
Some of the Fey on deck were shouting for the Gull Riders. The Sailors were still in position, two of them with arrows in their backs.
Gift shoved Skya toward the stairs. “Get the Nyeians. One of them can steer.”
She started to protest, but he shoved harder. He went for the wheel himself, but the man shook his head. “I’m getting it!”
The ship was listing to one side. A wave came up over the deck, washing the man with the arrow through his stomach overboard. One of the Fey women—a young one—screamed.
Arrows were spraying the entire area around Gift. One of them hit a Navigator who collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
Then Skya was back on deck. She grabbed Gift and flung him aside as if he weighed nothing. She held him underneath the overhang. “If you die, we all die. You’re staying here.”
One of the Gull Riders landed, and skidded across the wet deck. He ended up near Gift’s feet.
It was Ace.
“Find them,” Gift said. “Find whoever is shooting those arrows. Who sent them. Why they’re here.”
Ace nodded and flew off. Gift watched for a moment. The rain was coming in at an angle as the wind picked up. The drops were spattering his face, making it hard to see.
They weren’t shooting any more. They were waiting for him to come out.
On the deck at least a dozen Fey clutched wounds and moaned. A Nyeian came up the stairs at a run, saw the devastation and started down again.
Gift grabbed him by his ruffled shirt.
“You’re going to steer us out of here.”
“There’s no steering,” the Nyeian said. “We’re sideways.”
“Fix it.”
“I’m not good—”
Gift shoved him forward. The Nyeian stumbled, and then staggered toward the wheel. He moved the Fey who’d been trying to steer, glanced nervously at the cliffs, then used his scrawny arms to turn the wheel the other direction.
Arrows rained down, one hitting the Nyeian. He fell back, screaming.
“They’re not going to let us out of here,” Skya said.
The Gull Riders were flying toward the cliffs. The arrows had stopped again. Apparently the archers were conserving ammunition.
Gift knew how to resolve this, but he didn’t want to. It meant costing a life. But he had a shipload of people—and an entire country—to think about.
“You!” he said to one of the Fey holding up a Sailor. It was a man, about his height. “Come here.”
The man did. Gift pulled him into the deckhouse.
“What’s your name?”
“Rudolfo.”
A young man, named in the Nye tradition. His lower lip was trembling.
“Do you believe in the Empire?” Gift asked, the words sounding strange to him.
“Yes, sir.”
“We’re going to die if we stay here.”
“I know that, sir.”
“What are you doing?” Skya hissed.
Gift ignored her. “I’m a target. They’re running out of ammunition above. I need to get rid of the rest of it.”
“You want me to be a decoy.” Rudolfo’s voice had more confidence than his body did.
“Yes,” Gift said. “Stay low. Act as if you’re giving orders.”
Rudolfo nodded. He started out, but Gift stopped him.
“Wear my jerkin,” Gift said.
Skya turned away as if she were angry. Gift pulled off his jerkin, hoping they were far enough back that the archers couldn’t see this from above.
“I thought you didn’t believe in Black Family supremacy,” Skya said.
“Oh, I only get to use it when it suits you?” Gift snapped, as he handed the jerkin to Rudolfo.
“At least I don’t kill anyone.”
Rudolfo winced. Then he slipped on the jerkin, and put a hand on Skya’s arm.
“I’m proud to die for my people,” he said, and crossed the deck.
The wood was slippery with blood and rain. Spray crashed over the side as another wave crashed into the bow. The Nyeian slid along the surface, stopping as he hit the feet of a Sailor on the port side.
Arrows fell, following Rudolfo, but he zigzagged enough, his movement unpredictable. One seemed to graze him, but didn’t hit hard.
Gift hurried to the wheel. Skya yelled at him, but he didn’t stop. He had no idea what he was doing, knowing only that someone had to right this ship or they all would die.
“Skya!” he yelled. “Get the Nyeians up here. All of them. I don’t care how frightened they are.”
She nodded and ran below. Gift struggled with the wheel. It slid beneath his fingers, heavier than he thought. He had to put his whole weight into it to get it to move. Not that he was sure which direction to turn it.
The Navigators were no help. They issued instructions, their eyes glassy, as if the captain were still there to hear. They probably didn’t even know that the ship was under attack.
Arrows continued to fall around Rudolfo. The ship rolled and pitched, marring the archers’ aim. For that, Gift was thankful. The archers were clearly good shots; they had killed Wave instantly.
The ship seemed to be turning away from the cliffs and heading toward the center of the river. Gift glanced behind him. The sails were billowing, and one had a large rip in it.
Skya was at his side again, a Nyeian beside her. The man looked terrified.
“Steer this thing!” Gift shouted.
The Nyeian took the wheel. There were other Nyeians behind him, all standing near the stairs, looking shocked. The deck was a mess of water and blood and bodies.
Rudolfo was still moving. He reached the port side of the deck and suddenly an arrow caught him in the hip. He screamed and rolled on his side, clutching his leg.
Gift braced for the next arrow to hit, but it didn’t come. Rudolfo pulled himself toward the one of the small emergency boats where he’d get a bit of shelter. No one else seemed to notice that he’d been hurt.
The Nyeian had the ship moving forward at a fast clip. Gift had no idea how he’d done it.
Gift glanced up at the cliffs, saw the whiteness of gulls against the sky, and nothing else. He started toward Rudolfo, but Skya grabbed his arm.
“Maybe they realized it wasn’t you.”
He had no i
dea how they would know that, but he didn’t argue. Rudolfo was leaning against the boat, his hand around the arrow shaft.
The Fey who were supporting the Sailors were looking up as well, as if they expected to be hit at any moment. The waiting was almost as bad as the assault.
Then a Gull Rider landed on deck, white feathers saturated in blood. The gull’s head was almost black and some of the blood had congealed, despite the rain.
The Rider shifted back to his Fey form, growing to his full height, the bird body absorbing into his stomach. It was Ace. His naked body was covered with scratches, but as he shifted, the blood started washing off, leaving a pinkish trail on the deck.
“There were only two,” Ace said.
“Were?” Gift asked.
Ace nodded. “They were Islanders.”
That surprised Gift. “Did they know who we were?”
“Yes.” Ace’s response was curt. “They were trying to kill you.”
“Me?” That made no sense. He was an Islander. His father had been a beloved king.
“They think you’re bringing in a new invasion force. They think you’re going to kill all the pure Islanders and cover the Isle with Fey.”
“Where would they get that idea?” Gift asked.
Ace shrugged.
“How did they know we were coming?” Skya asked. “Have you sent messages, Gift?”
“No.” Gift ran a hand through his wet hair. “Were they working alone?”
“There’s a group of them. I couldn’t find out how many. They weren’t that forthcoming, and they died faster than I expected.”
That last sent a slight shiver through Gift.
“But they did say that there are more archers waiting along the river.”
“Wonderful,” Gift said.
“It’s good to know,” Skya said. “At least now we’ll be ready for them.”
“The river narrows farther ahead. We’ll be easier targets.”
“I don’t think the two sent any messages off before we killed them,” Ace said.
“Good.” Skya put a hand on his arm. “Then the others won’t know we’re coming. We can get them before they get us.”
“Maybe along the river,” Gift said. “But we need to find the source of this rumor, find out how fast it’s spread, and what we can do about it. I’m not walking through my home, watching my back.”
The Black King (Book 7) Page 5