The Guns of Ivrea

by Clifford Beal

  His head fell back and above he could see the bright light of the sky through the crystal sea. Three mermaids lifted him effortlessly through the water, now less dark as he neared the surface. After what seemed an age, his heart hammering, Danamis broke the surface with such speed that his whole torso shot upwards, and he sounded a horrible strangling noise as he greedily gulped air. The same sound he had made as a child when his father had beaten him so hard that he had screamed his lungs empty. That first inhalation was always hard fought.

  And with that painful breath he sank back, weaker than ever, and into the arms of the mermaids. One of them grasped his hair and held his head up.

  “Danamis!” she spoke, his name strangely accented on her lips. His eyes focussed on her and he now recognized his rescuer. It was Citala. He managed a nod in return. Without any words spoken amongst them, only a few exchanged glances, they tilted him on his back and towed him, Citala and another mer taking each an arm while the third woman supported his back from underneath. He could feel himself being pushed and pulled along, far faster than he could have even swum naked. They were taking him towards Nod’s Rock and as they drew closer they rose and fell with each huge swell. They were near to the cliffs and Citala looked at him again and spoke.

  “Danamis, take breath again and hold it. Not long this time!”

  Before he could protest he was under the water, his limbs flailing. Again he was pushed along and down, into the darkness but within a minute he had broken the surface again. This time, he was in a cavern with a ceiling barely head-height above the water. They pulled him along again in silence until he saw light from a jagged opening in the rocks ahead. The water became shallow and as he reached waist-deep he slipped to his knees. Undeterred, the three picked him up and supported him out and into an ankle-deep tidal pool. A tidal pool surrounded by verdant palm fronds and vines, the air filled with the pungent smell of earth and decaying vegetation. His head lolled. And then a deeper voice sounded in front of him and he turned.

  Two lanky mer warriors emerged from the undergrowth and advanced on him, and Citala stepped forward only to be brushed aside by one of the mer who towered over Danamis by more than head and shoulders. Danamis was like some run-out rabbit, frozen where he stood. The merman, his sharp teeth flashing in a wide snarl of anger, seized him round his chest and then lifted him up right off his feet, dripping armour and all.

  Twenty-Seven

  DANAMIS KNEELED IN the clearing, his hands bound behind his back. A twisted vine canopy rose all around him, the sun streaking through the greenery. Surrounding him were a dozen warriors, sleek and grey, their heads adorned with what he had previously believed to have been long plaited hair but, having seen one mer pull it from his head, he now saw it was an elaborate plaited headdress fashioned of sea grass. Mermen had no hair upon their bodies at all, it seemed. Several had the long slender black swordfish spears he had seen before. As he began to fall forward from fever and exhaustion, one of them stepped in and prodded him in the chest.

  He looked up to see mermen part and make way for a new arrival. It was Atalapah. He was talking low and fast in his tongue, too fast for him, but Danamis knew menace when he heard it. Atalapah snatched a spear from one of his warriors and moved towards him. He heard a woman’s cry and saw Citala rush in front of her father, blocking his progress. Gesticulating, nearly raving, the chieftain bore down on his daughter, flecks of spittle flying from his wide mouth. She held her ground, at times throwing a hand behind her towards Danamis, and then reaching out to her father in supplication. Danamis caught a few words but not enough to understand their conversation. He wished he had been more attentive to his father’s teaching but it was too late now.

  And suddenly, Citala was calling over her shoulder in halting Valdurian.

  “He is saying, Danamis, that I have sinned by bringing you here. You will not be suffered to live.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be leaving again anyway,” he croaked. He could feel himself slipping away into a swoon.

  Citala ran to his side and knelt, holding him up. She looked at her father and cried out to him again, her voice trilling and lilting. Atalapah grunted and motioned for her to move aside. She hauled herself up tall, pointed a shaking hand at him and spoke again. The other merfolk looked at one another, murmuring. Atalapah hefted the spear in his hand, lowered his head slightly and blinked a few times.

  Citala propped Danamis up as he sagged yet again. She spoke softly. “I told him you saved his life on the ship when you jumped in front of him and shielded him from attack.”

  Danamis swallowed hard. “Ah, I had… forgotten that.”

  She spat out more words in the mer tongue, all laced with accusation.

  Again, she whispered to Danamis. “I told him he owes you a blood debt.”

  Atalapah then spoke, pointing at Danamis. He turned the spear in his hand and drove it point first into the soft black soil. He gestured to his men-at-arms and turned, stalking off towards a large house fashioned of wood and palm fronds that lay on the far side of the clearing.

  Danamis could sense Citala relaxing her shoulders. She eased him backwards. “He says he will decide your fate later. No landsman can see where we live and return to Valdur to tell others.”

  Danamis finally felt blackness closing in on him. “Wouldn’t… help to… promise him?”

  And he fainted dead away in her arms.

  HE AWOKE IN a strange hovel, its roof made of interlaced palm fronds. As he became more aware, he felt something moving over his naked chest. He lifted his head a little to see a mer woman running her hand gently through his chest hair as she stared wide-eyed at his torso. There was a cry and then Citala was looming over him, scolding the other. The mer woman, who like Citala was nearly naked except for a wrapping of some manner of fabric about her loins, bowed and scuttled away as Citala knelt over him.

  “She has never seen one of your kind before. They are all amazed by how hairy you landsmen are.”

  He felt lucid again. His head fell back onto what appeared to be a straw mat and his eyes took in his surroundings. It was if he was inside some great bower, the round walls were made of living vines and light shone down from holes in the palms above.

  He opened his mouth and struggled to speak, the words clinging to the inside of his parched throat. “Did… they… get away? My ship?”

  Citala lifted his head and held a wooden cup to his lips. He drank the slightly bitter liquid it contained, and swallowed hard.

  “We saw them run from the other ships. I do not know if they got away but it appeared they were outdistancing them.”

  Danamis shut his eyes. “Thank the saints.”

  “You have lain here two days. I had to reopen your wound and clean it. It is now stitched up again. I think it will cause you pain.”

  “Better than being dead.” His hand felt for the gash in his side and he could feel some sort of paste and leaves pressed into it. He pushed himself up on his elbows and Citala moved to assist him. Pain lanced his ribs as his muscles flexed. “Ah! You’re right in that.” He was clad only in a loincloth like the mermen wore, their version of braes. He winced and looked up at Citala’s face and neck. “You have no gills? And you breathe air? And you are here… out of the sea?”

  She looked intently at him. “We are not fish, Danamis. We breathe as you do. And we hold our breath under the water, as you do. Just better.”

  Danamis took in her round face and delicate features, alien yet feminine. Her skin looked as smooth as polished glass. Again, he was reminded how much it appeared like the sleek skin of a dolphin, almost glistening even when dry. “How do you know the Valdurian tongue?” he asked.

  She leaned back on her knees. “Generations ago, most of my people spoke Valdurian. Now few have any reason to learn. One of our elders taught me. We have found books and scrolls at sea over the years. These too have I read.”

  “What will you do with me?”

  She crossed her arms. “I am
trying to convince Atalapah to spare your life. But even so, he may never let you leave here. We could not risk others finding us.”

  She spoke with authority and a certain coldness in her voice. But why had she bothered to save him from drowning? How had she even known he had fallen in unless she had been watching all along? He let himself slide back down and he focussed on the leafy ceiling above him.

  “Then you might as well kill me.”

  “It may come to that,” she replied, matter-of-factly. “But I would rather propose a new arrangement. When the time is right and when my father is in better humour.”

  “A new arrangement? I was here to do trade with you. You never came—but my enemy did.”

  She lithely regained her feet and seemed to be studying him, looking him up and down. “The myrra leaf is one reason I would make use of you,” she said. “But not in the way you might think.” She walked to the high-peaked opening of the hovel. “There are some truths about myrra you do not yet know. And it is a heavy responsibility your father bears in their creation. We will speak more of this later. Rest, Danamis.” She stopped at the entrance and turned back to him. “Why did you try and save my father—or me—when we were on your ship that day?”

  “I don’t know why. It was my ship. My expedition. My men had disobeyed.”

  Citala considered this for a moment. “And why did they attack us?”

  Danamis offered up his hand in guilt, maybe supplication. “Because they fear you. Because you are children of the old gods. Heathen.”

  She shook her head slowly, features hardening in disgust. But she did not reply. She slipped out through the entrance, leaving him alone.

  Danamis frowned to himself and scanned the room. His filthy shirt and woollen hose were hanging tucked into the thick vines of the walls, sea-sodden boots below. But his sword belt was nowhere to be seen, nor his brigantine. He briefly toyed with stealing away but to where? And then the realization struck him as if he had been slapped in the face. He now truly had nothing except his miserable life left to him. He rolled over, curled up, and tried to sleep.

  HE AWOKE TO the sound of birdsong, a noisy chatter in the canopy. It was still light outside, but weak. The air in the hovel smelled strongly of fish and he turned over to see a bowl by his side containing chunks of white fish and seaweed. Beside it were a few pieces of dark red fruit he did not recognize. He picked up a chunk of fish and saw that it was cooked. So the merfolk knew fire too. He dug his fingers in and ate it all, ravenous after his long fast. A large wooden drinking vessel, elaborately carved in swirling lines, stood nearby. He sniffed and then sipped. Water. Fresh and clear.

  Holding his side, he managed to crawl onto his knees and then stand. The undergarment he now wore was a curious wrap of woven weeds, secured with a waist tie. He slowly retrieved his hose and after a few minutes of painful manoeuvring, he had them on. His own braes had disappeared. The shirt was blood-stained and stiff. He threw it down and hefted the boots. Still damp, but wearable. He rolled them down and slipped them on, pulling them up to mid-shin. A quick look outside and then he cautiously stepped from the hovel and surveyed the encampment. Merfolk were everywhere: females, children, and warriors. A gaggle of small ones came running up to him, laughing and gesturing before being chased away by two young mermaids, who in turn, stopped and stared at him, their heads tilting like curious cats.

  But no one made to stop or challenge him. He walked unsteadily out into the open. There were dozens of hovels scattered around and he could see that he was near the base of tall cliffs, the same ones holding back the sea on the other side. Opposite this great wall of rock, the forest seemed to go on forever, though he could see the cliffs continue and curve away in the distance. Nod’s Rock was hollow, it seemed, though to all of Valdur it was a barren stone mountain, unclimbable and there only to wreck ships that ventured too close. He smelled smoke. A large ring of stones surrounded a cooking fire nearby. Tendrils of thick white smoke rose up and dissipated over the cliffs, looking like the mist of a sea fog as it reached near the top. On all his voyages he had assumed that was what it was, never dreaming of its true source. Two young warriors walked past him, heading for a cave in the cliffs, both about his own height, each armed with spears and sacks of woven sea-grass. They eyed him suspiciously, exchanging words in a muttered, sullen way. Were they youths? Despite the distrustful stares from all, he was left alone and he continued walking, this time towards a group that were seated in a circle near the centre of the village.

  One merman stood, reciting something in their rippling language while the others listened intently. And then, as he watched, he saw each and every one raise index and middle fingers of their right hand and press them to their foreheads, then dropping their hand to touch their hearts. On the ground he saw a symbol, something fashioned of bits of sticks and nut shells. It was a sunburst, its rays emanating outwards. The holy sign of the One Faith. He suddenly remembered Brother Acquel’s dreams of Saint Elded and the merfolk. These were no heathen. They were believers.

  Someone came up from behind and he turned. It was Citala, standing tall as he, eye-to-eye.

  “Does this surprise you, Danamis son of Danamis?”

  He nodded. “You all follow the One Faith?”

  As he looked into her face he thought he saw deep pain and sadness. An instant later it had changed and she was the chieftain’s daughter again.

  “It is time for us to speak plainly. Speak the truth of both our peoples. Come with me.”

  They walked a short distance from the village towards the massive cliffs, winding their way down a well-worn track, birdsong following them. At length they came to a pool that spilled from a jagged opening in the cliff face, the water rising and receding as the waves crashed on the far side of the rock wall—the very cavern he had come through, half-drowned.

  Citala entered the crystal clear pool, barely waist deep, and perched herself on a rock. Danamis glanced down at his sodden boots and decided to sit on an outcrop at the water’s edge. She pointed to the jagged opening of the cavern.

  “That is the only way in or out that you would be able to find, search as you might. It is the reason why my people are still here, alive.”

  Danamis folded his arms about his knees, his wound throbbing still. “How many of you dwell here in this place?”

  “There are some thousand of us that remain. Far fewer than in the time of my forebears. But here, at least, we are safe from your people.”

  He took in her long limbs, her hands and feet; a lean beauty, though mer she was. Her strange hair, a mystery in itself, was thicker than a human’s, almost like spun wool, the colour of snow. He smiled awkwardly, her prisoner, but at least alive.

  “In Valdur, we have been told all manner of things of the merfolk. That you live under the sea, have gills like fish, worship devils…” He grew embarrassed.

  “Your holy men planted those seeds. They have borne terrible fruit. Our storytellers remind us of a time when our peoples dwelled in peace and the mer lived on the shores of Valdur, from Saivona to Torinia. In the days of the saints we walked together as brothers and sisters.”

  “That sorrows me. I think my father was trying to learn more about the mer by trading with you. It was… a beginning.”

  “A beginning?” She pushed herself off the rock and dived down into the pool. She came up quickly and shook her head. “I bit my tongue over my father’s decision to trade with you landsmen. He wanted it. And you know why. But it is a curse, Danamis son of Danamis.” She emerged from the pool, the water beading on her skin. She looked down at him. “So who were those others chasing you down? You are a great admiral of Valdur, like your father was, says Atalapah. Why do you run?”

  Danamis ran his hand over his beard. “I was a foolish man. I lost my fleet and the rule of my city. Lost because I was a poor judge of bad men and because I took the good men for granted.”

  “So you fight to regain your power to rule over Palestro?” Her hair drip
ped seawater onto his boots.

  “That is so. But not terribly well up until now,” he said, grinning.

  “It seems to me that striving for the happiness of one’s people is more worthy than striving for power alone.”

  “You do not understand the ways of Valdur.”

  “So, what is it you want?”

  Danamis stood up, facing her. “I want to kill the man who stole my fleet and take back what is mine.”

  She looked into his eyes. “For which you will need more treasure, no doubt.”

  “I would not get very far without it.”

  Her tiny, flattened nose twitched, nostrils flaring. “Shall I show you what your myrra has accomplished?”

  Danamis looked at her quizzically. “My lady?”

  “Come with me.”

  They returned to the settlement and she took him deeper into its random and almost aimless arrangement, further than he had gone thus far. He saw womenfolk on their knees scraping the inside of some tree bark and peeling back the resulting white tissue. Others were rolling this and flattening it until they had small sheets of it.

  “That is tapua,” she told him. “What we make our cloth from.”