On the Seas of Destiny (Tale of the Nedao)

by Ru Emerson

  “A short time later, the other went up also—Noble Lord Vess. Most Noble Lord Lyiadd had not left that chamber.”

  Lyiadd never did, save only the once, when Vess first came. On my ship. He pushed that thought aside; too late to do anything about that. He fought off anger at the boy's granting the two men the titles, that was foolish. Den had to serve them, there was no point to his being beaten for forgetting the proper form of address.

  “They were up to something. A major spell, I thought. You could smell the witchcraft even at the base of the Tower, and the light through the shutters was very strong. Smoke poured from the chimneys. The moon was well up when something went hurtling across the sky—their doing, it must have been, though I saw nothing of it, only felt and heard it—and there was silence for a bit. And then, near dawn—” Den stopped.

  “I know. I saw it.”

  “I heard it,” Den whispered. “I moved just in time. Stone hit the ground where I'd been standing.” Ban Brit Unliss stirred, opened his mouth to speak, but subsided as Den said something to him again. “Since then, I've seen and heard no movement. I didn't try to climb the stairs, but I looked up them.”

  “They're still clear?” Brit Arren asked.

  “What I could see from the main doorway.”

  “Good.” One of his own men stirred; he waved a hand for silence. “Let me think how to proceed from here.” He glanced at the men with him, the old man and the lad huddled against his other side. “I'd lose none of you, if the choice is mine.” His crewmen settled into what comfort they could find as Brit Arren drew his feet in and wrapped both arms around his shins, let his chin drop to his knees.

  But if there were any way besides frontal assault, he could not see it, not for men who could not fly, coming against those who stayed in the uppermost chambers of that Tower and never came out. He peered out of the rabble toward the silent Tower. From this side, the damage was scarcely visible. A qualm touched him; anger pushed it away. Now. Delay only serves them, and lets them regain strength. He jumped to his feet. “Let's go.” As one, the men rose, silently drew swords and knives and followed him through a maze of fallen stone, crushed rubble and rotted timbers.

  There was an unpleasant odor inside the Tower: Burnt hair and flesh, some kind of thick incense, an underlying faint reek of decay that teased at the edge of the senses. Eleven men and a green boy slowly, silently moved up the circling flight of stairs. Brit Arren found himself grateful to Marrita for her fussing about the steps: They need fear no slimed rock underfoot.

  He'd cautioned against the least noise, though each man of them knew the Three used more than ears to sense approach. He'd tried to assure them on that point, too: The Power they drew on was strong, but it wasn't infinite. Overuse of it, or a spell that had come back on them, might temporarily drain them. Perhaps that was a flimsy hope to build an assassination upon, but it was the best they had. He'd been willing to chance it, and so had his men.

  That smell—death and must combined—was increasing as they mounted. An opening, any opening in the walls would have been welcome indeed, but the damage did not seem to have come down so far. The men were at his back now, for he'd put himself two paces in front of them and they came on resolutely. He was glad all the same there wasn't much further to go. No Sea-Raider liked fronting sorcery, it wouldn't do to give them long to think about that, and the smell of the place wasn't helping.

  He came up the last step, started across the open tiled floor toward the short staircase that led to the topmost chamber. There was visible damage here; stones had fallen from the walls and he could see the brilliant blue of distant ocean, a little of the bay. Oddly, the odor was stronger than ever; the breeze hadn't slackened but it seemed unable to make its way through the cracks. He shrugged that thought off, it wasn't, a good thing to think, just now.

  The men spread out as they reached level floor, and Ban and the boy came to his side. Den's face was greenish. Brit Arren held up his sword hand, the curved blade briefly reflecting light as it crossed a stray sunbeam. At the signal, four men dropped back to form a rearguard at the top of the stairwell. He and the rest started up the shallow steps that would take them—

  Odd. The air was becoming thick, hard to breathe, like Ragnolan steam. He caught at the wall, skinned his knuckles and swore under his breath. The silence was uncanny.

  Behind him, someone cried out in surprise. Silence! They will hear us! He wanted to shout that; the thought echoed through his mind, but his tongue refused to work, the air wouldn't move into suddenly agonized lungs, and the floor was sticky under his feet. He tried to focus on them. The stone floor was bleeding; dark red liquid was puddling around his boots. It dripped from his fingers; his forehead—he shifted the grip on his sword to wipe his brow; his hand came away stickily red. The cries behind him faded as horror gripped him. His gaze went up to the door—so few steps away, so distant!—and then, unwilling, past it to the ceiling. A crimson wave poised there, and as he looked up, it fell on him.

  Dark pain surrounded him like a stifling blanket. “Bah!” he told himself angrily. “Dark doesn't hurt!” The words rolled through his thought, thundering from ear to ear and back again, and he wished he could recall them. A wave of nausea gripped him, receded a little as he bit at his lower lip. His fingers throbbed; the stone floor was cold beneath his cheek. “I must have been drunk indeed to pass out like this,” he thought, and braced himself for more pain. But it was less this time, almost bearable. He ventured to open one eye.

  His right hand lay against his nose. No wonder it hurt; the tips of his fingers were scraped, swollen, bleeding in places. He'd gripped the wall with them, he knew that suddenly; gripped it for his very life, to stay upright when the ceiling turned to blood and came down on him. When he—a foot moved into his line of vision, a dark, well-cared-for, soft boot. Lord Captain Mal Brit Arren, with a jolt he could almost hear, was suddenly very much aware of his surroundings.

  “Treachery.” That cultured, slightly nasal voice with its halfheard undercurrent of whine or sneer. Vess. He knows I am conscious, Brit Arren realized. Of course. He. They. They know it all, just as Jon feared, just as Jon tried to warn me. And I was fool enough to think it was his fear.

  “I have never met a genuine traitor before,” Vess continued conversationally. The Sea-Raider couldn't decide if the man was speaking at him or to those others, Lyiadd and the witch. It didn't matter: They get no satisfaction from me, I will not crawl. He considered that thought, amended it carefully, If I can help it. He let his eyes close again.

  “Of course,” Vess went on, “there are such as my cousin, who could be construed as a traitor.”

  “We will not speak of her,” Lyiadd broke in harshly. His voice changed, concern etched it. “Marrita, please speak to me!”

  “I'm all right, my Lord.” She sounded short of wind. Someone nearly had them, Mal Brit Arren thought in brief satisfaction. “No, we will not speak of Nedao or Nedao's Queen, not tonight.” A chill silence. “If it does not discomfort you, of course, Lord Vess.”

  “Your servant in this, dear Lady, as in all things.” The sugary venom practically dripped from Vess’ lips. “But to return to this creature—what, I wonder, should we do with it?”

  “It broke its vows, kill it,” Marrita replied shortly, Vess laughed.

  “Yes, how simple! And how foolish of me not to see that!”

  “Stop, both of you!” Lyiadd overrode Marrita's sharp retort. Vess took a step back. “I would like to sleep a while, at least rest, so that I can put my mind to what passed here, and prepare to deal with it. Marrita is right, slit his throat and have done. Not here, you'll soil the carpets.” Brit Arren forced himself to lie still. To die with no chance to defend himself—

  “Ah, but,” Vess said. He sounded a little subdued but no less malicious. “This is the Lord Captain of these uncouth louts, if we kill him, it might precipitate—difficulties, shall we say—among his following.”

  “I doubt that,” L
yiadd returned evenly. “Remember how he became Lord Captain. By slaying the previous one! How much loyalty would you have for any man, knowing he'd killed for his place and might hold it four years? With luck?”

  “Well, but,” Vess protested mildly. “He might have his uses, you know. It seems a waste to simply kill him. Besides, consider his intentions. Read him. He's conscious.”

  “I know that,” Lyiadd returned in some irritation.

  “Read him,” Vess urged. “He's hoping to die quickly, can't you tell? I personally feel very strongly, Father, about giving this creature the very thing he wants.”

  “Well—” Lyiadd's voice trailed away. Silence for some moments, save the high, thin scree of wind between shifted stones, well up in the wall. Vess’ toe dug viciously against Brit Arren's ribs.

  “Rise, you! I want to see your eyes!”

  Somewhere deep in his mind, Brit Arren shrugged; it began, now, and it wouldn't be easy for him. He could only hope those who'd come up the Tower steps with him were dead; that the Three would believe him when he said no one else knew his plot. Likely that was the only thing he could still do, protect—he closed the thought away from him. Poor brave men from the Fury; poor old Brit Unliss. He could sleep away his curse forever now. His woman would mourn him and Den. No one would mourn Mal Brit Arren.

  He rolled over as the foot came for his ribs again, managed to get his feet under him. Vess was waiting, fixing him with a chill look indeed.

  The chamber was a mess: The table had been thrown against the far wall, the large tapestry was half-torn from the wall and wind hissed between the mangled shutters; the brass fastenings had burst, and someone had nailed extra bars across to hold them shut. Thick shards of glass lay everywhere; ash was smeared on the carpets and the chairs he could see were gritty with grey and brown soot. Lyiadd was hunched down in a chair well away from the door; Marrita hovered near him. Her gown was filthy, one sleeve torn nearly off; her hair had fallen in grubby spills and tangles across her shoulders.

  Vess had fared no better: A smudge of black ran down his face, one eye was swollen and purple. The hand holding the dagger between them was nearly as scraped and battered as Brit Arren's own. The two armsmen who barred the door with long pikes were hurt, too; one wore a bloody bandage over his brow and one ear.

  “A poor way to dissolve our bargain,” Vess said coolly.

  “It was no bargain of mine, and so I told you more than once.” Anger gave Brit Arren back his tongue. “It was Nod Bri H'Larn's.”

  Vess laughed. “And you think that will make a difference to us? Well, however you savages look upon such contracts, we intend to hold it, and you know that. Don't you?” His gaze caught the other man's and held it. “Don't you?”

  Brit Arren's skin crawled and he clamped his tongue firmly between his teeth. It moved of its own, his lips did. “Yes.” Pure fury glared out of his blue eyes, and for a moment, Vess wavered, almost retreated a pace. “You'd make me speak, would you? Aye, I knew you'd no intention to break Nod's bargain. Just as I know you've no intention of leaving us alive when you quit the Isles.”

  “Ah?” Marrita had come silently across the room and now stood next to Vess. “And how do you reason this, seaman?” He closed his mouth, thinned his lips to a disapproving line and resolutely kept his gaze from her, lest she trap him as Vess had.

  “My reasoning's my own, I know. And now you can do as you like with me, let one of the younger lads take command. Let them do your bidding, commit murder and rape for you!”

  “Brave words,” Marrita said finally, her voice ominously gentle. “You might have provoked another of your kind to kill you with such words, was that your intent? We are not ruled by such emotional trickery, Mal Brit Arren. I fear no such simple death will be yours.”

  “I had not thought it,” he replied shortly, and fixed on another spot well above her head.

  Silence stretched. Brit Arren concentrated on the stone wall, and when Marrita spoke again, he started. “Vess. When do you leave for Koderra?”

  “Two days. Those I hired to clean and rebuild the Tower should be near done.”

  “You will take the women, children and the boys from the inland villages for our surety? Your Ragnolan mercenaries, your personal armsmen?”

  “Seven ships go with me. That is not counting those already in Koderra and those I expect from Osnera in a five-day or so.”

  “Surely, you will have room for one more man? A prisoner?” Out of the corner of his eye, Brit Arren could see Vess nod in response to each of Marrita's questions. “One who should be saved for a very special execution, who could serve as an example when Yslar is conquered?”

  “What an excellent notion! My Lady, I quite like the way your mind works.” Even Brit Arren could sense the antagonism underlying the sweetly spoken words, but Marrita pretended to take them at face value, smiled and inclined her head. “It behooves us not to move rashly; treason requires particular care in its treatment. But just now, there is one small matter. Something the Lord Captain—but you are not Lord Captain now, are you, Brit Arren?—something requiring your talents.”

  “No! I refuse—”

  “Silence,” Vess whispered. Brit Arren trembled, but even anger was of no use; words would not come.

  Vess reached into the throat of his tunic and drew out a long, fine chain. Something depended from it, but Brit Arren could not tell what without looking at it directly: bird, perhaps. Red stone eyes glittered even here in shadow. He shuddered; Vess laughed. There was eagerness in his laugh, anticipation. Brit Arren swallowed hard and closed his eyes.

  Silence, a long, tense silence. Then sounds in the corridor: reluctant footsteps mounting the last short flight of stairs. Vess laughed triumphantly; Brit Arren's eyes flew open as a terrified sob filled the room. Jon? Vess waited; the boy stopped before him. A pendant like Vess’ swung from his neck, clearly visible against the pale shirt.

  “Mal?” Jon's whisper was scarcely audible, and it trembled so with tears no man would have known it for Jon Bri Madden's. “Mal, I am sorry, it wasn't my choice! They trapped me, he did! But I was afraid, so afraid, and I didn't want you to know—!” His voice broke. Tears ran down his face; following tracks left by earlier ones. Brit Arren stepped around Vess; he touched Jon's face, wiped the tears away with gentle fingers no man would have known for Mal Brit Arren's.

  “I know, lad, I know,” he whispered. It was all he had voice for at the moment. “I know you were frightened, there's no shame to that. It's all right.” Hemmed his head. “Bravely done, Noble Lord Vess! So that's how your sorcery works! Not great spells, but the terror of a poor young lad! You vermin, you filth—you coward!” Vess moved back out of reach. Brit Arren would have lunged for him but his legs would not obey.

  “Be still, you give me a headache,” Vess said evenly. Brit Arren opened his mouth to bellow a retort, but no sound came, no words. “I wager you would ask me not to harm this poor sniveling rag—if you could talk. I have no intention of hurting the lad. In fact, I shall reward Jon Bri Madden. Perhaps I shall let him serve me personally, as he served you.” Jon caught back a sob; he closed his eyes and went even paler than he'd been.

  “Ah, but he betrayed his, captain,” Vess went on softly. He laughed. Brit Arren closed his eyes and desperately, wished he could close his ears as readily. “Treachery, service, punishment, reward—how to deal with this?” He contemplated the two for a long moment. Brit Arren opened his eyes as Vess bent down to release a thin-bladed dagger from his boot. The gems in the handle glittered, almost like the little red eyes of Vess’ medallion and Jon's matching one. Ah, Jon, no! It was suddenly more than he could bear, that Jon had been the means of his undoing.

  “Take the knife.” A gentle voice broke in on his agonized thoughts. Brit Arren blinked. There was a narcotic flavor to that voice, it soothed, lulled—he found his hand reaching for the blade almost before he was aware it had moved. He caught his breath in a gasp that sounded overloud in the still chamber, t
ried to pull his hand away. He couldn't. The air was sluggish, hard to breathe—like Ragnolan steam. “Take it.” Square, capable, red-freckled fingers wrapped around the hilts. “Take it, and kill the traitor.”

  “Traitor,” he whispered. No! He was himself for one brief, terrified moment. That is Jon! He'd have you kill Jon! ‘Kill the traitor.’ The words swirled through him, drowning his thought. The Sea-Raider swayed on his feet as the conflict pushed him back and forth, but the hand was going back, fingers tightened on the jeweled haft. Jon whimpered, his eyes wild, and he fought with all the strength in him to move. Vess’ Power held him still; he could not so much as turn his head to avoid seeing Mal Brit Arren's blank face, the intention in his eyes.

  “Mal,” he breathed as the blade came up in a shining arc and plunged into his chest. He choked, caught at the older man's hand as Vess’ holding spell dropped away from him. His hands went limp and he fell. Brit Arren stood over him, dagger still clasped in his hand. Vess took it from him, wiped it across Brit Arren's palm and restored it to his boot.

  “That was well done, my friend. We'll speak of it another time. Perhaps I shall even reward you for the deed. Perhaps you will serve me, as he served you. Or perhaps I shall grant you death not long removed from his—so you need not remember for so long a time that it was your hand that killed him.” He turned and left the chamber. Marrita followed, her arm around Lyiadd, his around her. They skirted the fallen boy, the standing, stunned Sea-Raider, took the guards out with them. The door slammed shut and the bolt fell into place with a final, heavy clang.

  Mal Brit Arren shuddered as the sorcery fell away from him. Jon. He dropped heavily to one knee, touched the fallen lad, Jon's eyes were wide and fixed; terror still gripped his face. The neat little wound just under his ribs had bled very little and now had stopped. Brit Arren clasped Jon's body to him, closed his eyes and wept.