The Night of the Swarm

by Robert V. S. Redick

  She turned in a circle. Only now did she appear to realize that the whole ship had fallen silent, and that hundreds of eyes were upon her.

  “Well?” she demanded. “Who will tell me where they keep it? Who among you wants to live?”

  No one moved, no one spoke. Pazel was breathless with pride and gratitude. Every soul on the deck was standing firm.

  Then a voice said, “I will show you.”

  Pazel looked up, and wished he could die. The voice was Myett’s. The ixchel woman stood on the main yard, thirty feet above their heads. And she was not alone: at least one other ixchel was crouching near her, all but hidden by the spar. Farther out along the timber crouched Niriviel, eyeing the sorceress with hate.

  From the tangle of bodies, Ensyl cried out, heartbroken: “Myett! No, sister! You can’t!”

  “It’s the only way,” said Myett.

  “Be silent, you up there!” snapped Fiffengurt. “That’s an order!”

  Macadra was staring up at Myett, perplexed and doubtful. “I’ll show you!” Myett repeated, with a note of desperation. “Only don’t let them punish me, and don’t leave me here! I don’t want to die!”

  The paralysis ended; Macadra’s victims began to struggle to their feet. “Mucking crawlies,” said Haddismal. “Every Gods-damned time.”

  “Myett, who’s up there with you?” shouted Thasha.

  “Another backstabbing, ship-sinking louse with legs, that’s who,” shrieked Oggosk. “Kill them!”

  Someone hurled a broken timber. Myett dodged, but a hail of objects followed: boots, bottles, hammers, knives. The falcon shrieked: “Stop, fools, stop!” but no one heeded it. Myett leaped for the mast and began to climb. Then a well-aimed chisel struck her in the legs, and she fell.

  She never reached the deck. A whirl of black smoke passed under her, lifted her, and bore her away at great speed along the deck. Roaring, the sailors who were still on their feet gave chase. But Macadra was too fast. Pazel saw Myett lift a hand to indicate the tonnage shaft. The black whirlwind flowed over the rail and down into the ship’s dark depths, and Myett went with it.

  All was still. The crew stood trapped between confusion and despair. Pazel looked at Thasha. Thasha looked at Hercól. Neeps looked down at Felthrup, and the rat, for once in his life, held stock-still, too mystified even to squirm.

  Then, of all people, old Dr. Rain spoke up. “It isn’t that way, silly crawly. Everyone knows the Nilstone’s in Thasha’s cabin. You should have used the Silver Stair.”

  Hercól was looking up at the main yard.

  “You there! Show yourself at once!”

  To Pazel’s surprise his command was obeyed: two ixchel men rose and stepped to the edge of the massive beam. One of them was Saturyk, Lord Talag’s enforcer. And the other—

  “You,” said Hercól.

  It was Ludunte: Diadrelu’s former disciple, and the one who had lured her into the trap that took her life.

  Ensyl leaped for the mast and began to climb.

  “Sister,” said Ludunte, a pleading note in his voice, “just give us a moment, please—”

  “I have something else to give you,” said Ensyl. In all their trials and danger together, Pazel had never heard her like this, enraged to the point of madness, longing to kill. “Hercól!” she shouted, almost snarling. “Did you love her or not? Is her memory sacred to one of us alone?”

  Hercól set a hand on the mainmast. Pazel saw the struggle on his face. He too wanted to kill, and was making a terrible effort to restrain himself.

  “Something is not right, Ensyl,” he said. “Nothing is right! She died, they live!”

  Ludunte! thought Pazel. Of all the ixchel to show his face, after so long. And what in Pitfire did you say to Myett?

  A third ixchel, on hands and knees, appeared at the spar’s edge and looked down. He was clearly wounded and quite feeble. As he struggled to rise Saturyk noticed him and cried out: “My lord!”

  Too late. The man’s strength gave way, and he toppled from the spar. Hercól lunged, but the distance was too great. The tiny figure struck the deck and lay still.

  Pazel and his friends rushed to the spot. Hercól was already kneeling. He lifted the figure, cradling him in both palms. His eyes filled with wonder, and new pain.

  It was Lord Taliktrum.

  He was struggling to breathe. He wore the remains of his old robe of office, the swallow-suit. But the plumes were scorched, almost melted, and so caked with blood that Pazel doubted the suit could ever again be removed.

  “Fiffengurt,” he rasped, bloodshot eyes blinking.

  The captain appeared moments later, pushing through the crowd. He had already removed his hat.

  “You told me,” murmured Taliktrum. “Not to leave the clan forever. Not to swear I’d not come back. You were right, in your way. Ah, Olik: well done. The dogs never caught up with you. I am glad.”

  “Warrior and friend,” said Prince Olik, “what last thing would you ask of one who owes you his life?”

  Taliktrum only shook his head feebly. Then, with a startling whoosh, another ixchel dived into their midst: Lord Talag. He wore the other swallow-suit, but he bore no weapon, nor even a shirt beneath the robe. His face, nearly always stoic and severe, was like an open wound.

  He alighted, and fell to his knees beside his son. They spoke in their own language, and none save Pazel could hear them.

  “Father—”

  “Hush, my child. I wronged you, wronged the clan from the start. Don’t say you forgive me: there are sins too deep for pardon. Only know I love you, and will work no more evil in this world.”

  “I set four charges in their hold, Father, and all four exploded. It was easy. Under all that metal the ship was a twin of the Chathrand. And such an arsenal. They never missed the black powder.” He managed a ruined smile. “And they’d never had an ixchel problem before.”

  Talag closed his eyes. His voice when he found it was low and strained. “Four charges. Well. I suppose you’re proud of yourself.”

  “The last one caught me. I was burning as I flew. If the falcon hadn’t seen me I’d have drowned along with the giants. You would have done better, sir.”

  “No!” Talag’s eyes snapped open. Then, more gently, he said, “That isn’t true, my son.”

  Taliktrum paused, and the smile played again upon his lips. “It was glorious,” he said. “It was a work of art.” His eyes passed over the crowd of humans, and once more he bent his voice for their ears. “You say so much that’s vile and ignorant about my people. But one thing you say is true enough. We know how to sink ships.”

  He rolled on his side and coughed a little blood.

  “Lord Taliktrum!” cried Felthrup, in sudden desperation. “Do you have no word for Myett?”

  Taliktrum raised his head, and his eyes lit briefly at the name. Then they closed, and the young lord lay still. From above, Saturyk called out, his gruff voice full of sorrow.

  “He told her, Felthrup Stargraven. For all the good it can do them now.”

  The black force that was Macadra swept through the mass of fallen rigging that clogged the tonnage shaft. Myett, suspended within the whirlwind, could hear the mage’s voice in her mind.

  What are you? Are you magically cursed, to be so small?

  “I am an ixchel,” said Myett, “and no, I’m not cursed.”

  And at last she believed it.

  You will be worse than that if you dare lie to me. Which way?

  “To the orlop deck, then forward. The Nilstone is in the brig.”

  Locked away from fools who would try to master it, and kill themselves in the bargain!

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Myett, “Take the starboard passage. Will you spare me, Mistress?”

  Which way, you louse?

  Myett pointed. She had never been more frightened, or more certain of her choices.

  “There’s the door ahead. The small green one.”

  It stood slightly ajar, exactly where
Saturyk had promised she would find it. Her clan still existed, still studied the Chathrand, still knew where to find a door that came and went like a mirage. But Macadra was instantly suspicious.

  Just there, unguarded? Behind that crumbling door?

  “I’m not lying, Mistress.”

  The whirlwind surged down the passage. Around Myett there was a sudden crackle of excitement.

  I feel it! The Nilstone! You spoke the truth!

  The Green Door flew wide. Myett felt herself carried down the black, cluttered hallway, toward the antique lamp whose glow increased as they approached. Now came the greatest terror. Now she would win life or everlasting torment. It didn’t matter, so long as she won.

  The black whirlwind paused in the center of the chamber. Two of the four cells stood empty. The third held an ancient corpse. And in the last, seated on a chest, was the human being Myett hated most in the world. Sandor Ott.

  “Crawly, is that you?” he said, squinting at the sudden light.

  Myett felt cold fingers take shape around her: Macadra had resumed her natural form.

  At the sight of the ghastly figure, Ott shrank back with a squeal of fear. “Mercy, mercy!” he cried. “Where did you come from? Don’t punish me, I’ve done nothing to anyone! Don’t hurt a poor old man!”

  “It’s there, there in his chest,” said Myett. “Will you protect me, Mistress? Let me serve you in the life to come? I may be small, but—”

  The mage flung her viciously to the ground. She advanced to the cell in two strides and flung open the door. “Back away, old man!” she shrieked.

  Ott was only too happy to oblige. As he leaped away, Macadra threw herself on Captain Rose’s sea chest. When she raised the lid, a black light bathed her face.

  She made a fist of her bone-white hand. She closed her eyes and mumbled a spell—or could it have been a prayer? Then her hand plunged into the chest, and emerged holding an orb that burned darker than the soul of midnight.

  Cackling, triumphant, Macadra lifted her prize. “It does not kill me! Can you see me, Arunis? I am its mistress—not you, brother, never you! It will be Macadra Hyndrascorm, not Arunis, who takes her place in the court of the eternal ones, who disposes of worlds as she sees fit, who—”

  A harsh clang, metal on metal. Sandor Ott had stepped out of the cell and closed it behind him.

  Macadra took in his changed expression: the terror and the simpering were gone. The little louse-woman’s face had changed as well. Then she knew. An enchanted brig, of course the Chathrand would have one, why hadn’t she guessed? But what of it? No magic in the world could stand against her now. She lowered her hand, grinning despite herself, and summoned the power of the Stone.

  Nothing happened.

  Macadra stared at the throbbing black orb. Sandor Ott turned to Myett, spread his hands and smiled with what looked almost like beneficence. Myett scowled at him.

  “It wasn’t for you,” she said.

  “You do not love me, then?” said Sandor Ott. “Not even a little, after all this time?”

  His smile widened into something unpleasant. But Myett stared him down. “Love,” she said at last. “You shouldn’t be allowed to speak the word.”

  She ran from the chamber. Ott started to follow, then paused and turned to face the cell with the corpse.

  “Thank you for the intelligence, Captain Kurlstaff. And my compliments to Rose, if you should see him. It seems his trinket was good luck after all. Madam—”

  He bowed mockingly to the sorceress, then raced down the passage and through the Green Door, a free man and a patriot, without a moment to lose.

  Macadra stood staring. The Nilstone felt heavy in her hand. She closed her fist about it, tightly, commanded it to obey her, to reveal all its secrets.

  And it did. The black light went out. In her hand lay a small glass eyeball, a panther’s maybe, or a leopard’s. A folly. A trinket. Macadra hurled it away, flew at the door that had no lock, that did not open, that would never open again. The lamp grew dim. And as the darkness deepened, Macadra heard, very faintly, the laughter of invisible men.

  36

  The Wave

  The disc of stars was shrinking.

  Pazel gazed up at the twinkling lights and wanted to speak to them, to offer thanks, or perhaps farewell. The Swarm’s mouth was closing, converging on all sides toward a point somewhat inland from the Arrowhead Sound. It might, he reflected, be the last starlight his world would ever see.

  The sound was only slightly wider than the gigantic rock that marked its entrance. At first the dry, eroding cliffs ran parallel; then they drew much closer together, and the sound become a flooded canyon, crooked and deep. Into this strange fjord they tacked, on two masts and tattered sails. Great black birds swept over them: vultures, probably, although it was too dark to be sure. Their flapping echoed morosely between the silent cliffs.

  There was no wind to speak of. Pazel looked up at the limp canvas: it seemed almost a miracle that they could move at all. But they were moving, and rather smartly. Elkstem and Fegin manned the wheel together, sweating and scrambling. The lookouts strained their eyes for rocks.

  After two miles, a long, gray beach appeared under the western cliffs. Pazel squinted, then felt nausea strike him like a blow to the face. The beach was strewn with bodies: dlömic bodies, and human. Nothing moved but the carrion-birds, hundreds strong and feasting. All over the Chathrand sailors made the sign of the Tree.

  Prince Olik raised his hand and pointed: a stone staircase, also strewn with bodies, wound its way up the cliff and vanished into the hills.

  “The Death’s Head came this far, searching for you,” he said, “and here some of my people tried to flee. A few escaped into Gurishal, but most were driven back to this shore by the Nessarim. Macadra did not discriminate between them: she launched a terrible glass cube over the beach. It exploded, filling the sky with needles, and everyone ashore fell dead. After this Macadra dared sail no farther, but turned her vessel back to the sea.”

  “Of course she did,” said Fiffengurt, “and let me say this perfectly clearly: we won’t be able to turn back, if this canyon narrows any further. There’s depth here, I’ll grant you. But a ship needs seaway too. It’s blary suicidal to be squeezing her into this sort of crack.”

  “The only act of suicide would be to hesitate, Captain,” said Hercól, “though it gives me no joy to say so. Could the tides offer us no hope of escape?”

  “The tides!” Fiffengurt gave an appalled little laugh. “A tidal race would carry us out to sea again, to be sure. In bits and pieces, after the rocks and cliffs had finished with us. As for the keel—well, now, the keel …”

  Fiffengurt let his voice trail off. Pazel knew he must be struggling to keep his mind on higher things, despite all his instincts as a mariner, and as a man who’d served the Chathrand most of his life. Suddenly Pazel wished he could put an arm around the man’s weary shoulders. What was it doing to him, to know that his ship’s long tale was ending?

  Another mile, another silent beach. There were no bodies here, but as they glided past, Kirishgán’s sharp eyes caught sight of a small black animal. It was running alongside them in the surf, trying to keep up. “Arpathwin!” he cried. “Hurry, change! Take owl-form and fly to us!”

  The black mink did not change, and was soon falling behind. Fiffengurt called for shorter sails. But as the men furled canvas, his face grew puzzled. The Chathrand did not appear to be slowing.

  Thasha looked at the others in alarm. “I don’t think he can change at all,” she said. “I think his powers are gone.”

  “Then we will bring him ourselves!” said Bolutu. “Come, Prince—”

  Before they could dive, however, Niriviel leaped from the rail. “Stay, the bird is swifter,” said Hercól, “and he has carried heavier loads than one exhausted mink.”

  “Undrabust, heave the blary log,” said Fiffengurt. “I could swear we’re gaining speed.”

  Neeps gathered
the knotted rope and threw the weighted end into the sound. Moments later he had a reading: “Six knots, Captain.”

  Fiffengurt tugged at his beard. “You there, aloft!” he cried at last. “Strike the mains, and the topsails also. No, by the Tree, strike all the canvas. You heard me, lads: go to.”

  There was not much canvas left to strike. In short order the two surviving masts stood naked. But the Chathrand plowed on, unchanged. Like a man in a dream, Fiffengurt walked to the rail, snatched off a midshipman’s hat and flung it overboard.

  “It’s just bobbing there on the surface,” he declared. “There’s no current at all. Blue devils, what’s making us move?”

  “The cargo,” said Marila.

  Everyone started. “How do you figure?” asked Neeps.

  Marila looked at him. “The way most people do. You should try it.” To the others, she said, “Look at Elkstem and Fegin.”

  The two sailors were barely managing to control the wheel. They looked, Pazel had to admit, rather clumsy and inept.

  “They know how to sail,” said Marila, “but we’re not sailing. I’ll bet you all the gold on this ship that if they dropped the wheel we’d spin around and float backward.”

  “The Nilstone,” said Thasha, wonder in her voice. “It’s in my cabin, near the stern. Marila—you think it’s pulling us?”

  “Or pushing,” said Marila, “as long those two can keep us from spinning around.”

  The notion was, to say the least, disconcerting. Pazel could not dismiss it, however. Just hours ago, he and Neeps had wondered what might happen to the Nilstone as they neared their goal. If Marila was right they had their answer.

  Niriviel returned bearing Ramachni, and Thasha ran to him and took him in her arms. Ramachni looked gaunt and haggard, and his fur was singed, but his black eyes gleamed even here in the darkness.

  “Gently!” he said. “I am spent as you have never seen me, dearest.” He looked over the ship. “You have roped off the forecastle: just as well. The poison there will linger a long time.”