On the Seas of Destiny (Tale of the Nedao)

by Ru Emerson

  The Sea-Raiders were fighting hard, but only one of Vess’ Ragnolan guard remained standing. Another knelt to tend a fallen companion, the rest were dead. Vess was turning back and forth frantically, focus stone gripped between his hands, and so he did not sense the silent figure on the rails behind him until Brit Arren closed the distance between them with a single leap and twisted the garrot around Vess’ throat. The focus dropped and rolled across the deck.

  “No!” Galdan stumbled backward, tripped over rabble and fell as Ylia's scream echoed across the bay. Power turned the air around her golden. “Damn you forever, Brit Arren, he's mine!" And she was gone. Galdan swore. Her cry echoed in his ears. He scrambled to his feet, stared out across the bay.

  “Gods, no,” he whispered as she appeared on the Fury's deck. He would have bridged after her, but a hand restrained him. Bendesevorian stood at his side. Sweat dotted his brow, cool as it was, and there were faint lines running from his nose to the corners of his mouth that had not been there earlier. “No. Wait. We can bring her back from here. Wait.” Galdan shook his had unhappily, but subsided against the Nasath's grasp.

  The focus stone fell from Vess’ fingers as the rope looped down past his startled eyes and wrapped around his throat. He tried to get a hand under it, but Brit Arren had it too tight already. The one remaining guard shrieked in terror and fled. Hit him—Power—His vision was going, fast; consciousness would be next, he couldn't think! He lashed out with his feet, his elbows, fighting wildly, but the Sea-Raider laughed, dodged with ease and pulled the rope a little tighter.

  He staggered then and nearly fell, as the guard who had been kneeling, forgotten by his wounded companion, launched himself sideways and caught Brit Arren's legs. Brit Arren cursed, kneed the Ragnolan in the chin, but the damage was already done. Vess forced his fingers under the garrot, half-twisted away from his would-be assassin and out from under the rope. A dagger was in his hand, pressing the Sea-Raider's throat.

  “I was right not to fully trust you, wasn't I? I see you managed without access to the stairway and without blades, I commend you—dead man!” The point broke skin. Brit Arren looked at him coldly. His eyes widened as movement directly behind Vess caught his eye. Vess, sensing Power, tensed and began to pivot. He screamed as Ylia's dagger sliced across his back. He would have fallen into Brit Arren, but Ylia snatched hold of his shoulder and whirled him around.

  “Greetings, sweet cousin!" she whispered. “By all the gods there are, but it pains me to kill you quick!” Vess screamed again, this time in rage; he brought up his dagger to block her, to hurt her if he could. But he was half-choked, bleeding profusely, and the Power wouldn't answer him.

  Ylia slashed two-handed across his throat, scrambled back as blood shot across the upper deck, and Vess sprawled across the deck, dead before he ever touched it. Brit Arren stared at her blankly across the body; she, badly blooded, gasping for air, stared back. She was the first to recover; shouts on the lower deck and pounding feet warned her. “Here!” She caught up Vess’ dagger and held it out; he ripped it from her fingers as he sped past. Ylia cast Vess one final look and glanced at the fallen Ragnolans. Neither seemed disposed to fight her.

  Shark's bowmen were still shooting across the Fury's decks; Sea-Raiders crouched in the bows, waiting a chance to board her. But down on the main deck, twenty Ylsan swordsmen pelted toward the raised afterdeck. ‘Galdan!’ she sent urgently. Thullen stones, Lyiadd's focus or her own capricious Power, the bridging was gone again.

  And an urgency beyond oncoming armsmen was pressing her. She shoved hair off her forehead, wiped her eyes clear. Brit Arren was standing near the bulwark, staring blankly across the deck of the Fury, and she realized in sudden horror that the focus stone was in his hands. “Mal Brit Arren, drop that thing!” He half-turned. The stone was beginning to change; he was also. She launched herself across the deck, threw herself on him and toppled them both over the side. The stone flew from his hand and went over with them.

  It was a long way to the water, and she was somehow underneath when they hit. The air she'd taken in was driven from her, and they went below the surface, below the Fury's mainbeam, down into blacker water. She saw the focus stone drift by on its way to the bottom. A strong hand caught at her cloak and dragged her upward. Her head broke the surface, she rubbed hair and water out of her eyes, choked as a wave broke over them.

  “Watch the waves!” Brit Arren shouted against her ear. She nodded, but as she fought for air, the bridging caught them and hauled them ashore.

  “You had no right!” Brit Arren made no attempt to stand, seemed to take no note of the sudden change of surroundings, the armed Nedaoans surrounding him—of anything but Ylia, who was still coughing up water. But at that, she sat upright and glared back at him.

  “I warned you, Brit Arren! He was mine, I told you that! You tried, you failed. Should I have let him kill you first?”

  “You interfered, I could have taken him!” he bellowed. Was this the same woman? The nervous, tentative air was gone as if it had never been. He barely noticed; his own formidable temper, buried for so long under grief and hopelessness, ignited. “I had it all worked out—!”

  “He was mine, you had no right!” Ylia leaped to her feet, quarrel forgotten as Galdan shouted a warning. Where the focus had fallen, the water was boiling furiously; Power roared skyward. Fury's men ran for the oars, risking Narran arrows in their haste to pull the ship away from this new terror. And the sky, which had been clearing rapidly with approaching mid-day, went dark: Lightning burst over the ships and wind howled through the bay, drowning even the thunder. As suddenly as the storm began, it was gone. The sea steamed where the focus stone had gone to the bottom.

  Mal Brit Arren got slowly to his feet. He eyed the company around them warily. Galdan watched him impassively. There was no outward indication on his clothing, anymore than there was on Ylia's, but Brit Arren had no doubt he stood before Nedao's King. His enemy.

  “You are Mal Brit Arren, captain of the Fury?" Galdan asked.

  “I'm Brit Arren.”

  “Then you are my prisoner,” Galdan said.

  “Prisoner,” Ylia spat. She sheathed the dagger she'd held even when she hit the water. “He'll think prisoner!”

  “He did nothing except help you,” Galdan said mildly. Ylia glared at him. “Think on it when your brains overcome your rage, will you?”

  Brit Arren had turned back to watch the ships. A sudden prickling ran over his skin. It had nothing to do with soaked clothes, salt water running down his neck from dripping hair, soggy boots or his present company. A pure fierce joy filled him and he turned to Galdan on impulse. “Do you want Fury? The other ships? Let me back out there.”

  “Let you out there. Why? Give me a good reason, I'll listen,” Galdan said. Ylia stared at him in astonishment.

  “Look.” Brit Arren pointed. Shark had pulled back but there was still heavy fighting aboard Fury. My men. He ached with pride. “Look at them. They're killing Lyiadd's armed and throwing them into the bay. Let me out there. You can sink us all, but it will cost you. And there is no need. I owe no loyalty to Lyiadd. He will kill us because of Vess, or merely because we have failed him. Or you will kill us. We have nothing to lose.” Galdan met his eyes, searchingly. “Let me out there. I can clear those filthy Ylsan sorcerers from our decks. My men can. But they need a leader.”

  “Go.” Galdan held out a hand. Brit Arren gripped it. He hesitated, then faced Ylia. She gazed back at him with dark, hard eyes. But she met his hand half-way, then stood aside without comment as Galdan bridged him out to the Fury. A wild cheer rang across the water.

  So many deeds had been done for vengeance: For Brendan's death; for Lyiadd's near-death. For Brandt's death, and Scythia's, against the Tehlatt. Ylia's revenge against Vess and against Lyiadd with Vess’ death—and that began the cycle once again.

  For Ylia had in turn cost Lyiadd his only son: Weak, vain, ruled by his loins instead of his brains. Lyiadd never le
t himself see those flaws—how often do human fathers see such flaws in only sons, or sons of their age?

  26

  Deathly silence held the topmost chamber of the Sirdar's palace: Lyiadd, his face ashen, stared into the oil basin. The focus stone was on its way to the bottom of the bay, the oil a blank sheet, but what was left of Vess still filled his vision. My son! She has dared! “NO!" His outraged cry shook the stone walls of the chamber. Tears spilled down his face, and he didn't even know he wept. Focus, find it, kill them—kill them all! Power lashed out: The stone was too far down in water for him to retrieve it, but it reacted to his fury: Power set the mud around it to boiling; Power erupted skyward, flame from the sea meeting the fullness of his wrath: Lightning, thunder, a howl of wind.

  He couldn't sustain it; couldn't, in his blind rage, control it. It faded, was abruptly gone. Lyiadd fell back against the wall, covered his face with his hands and whirled away to lean against the rough stones.

  His two generals stood nearby, shifting nervously; they'd seen little. It had been more than enough. “Barbarian,” Delall whispered; Ylia's attack on Vess had shaken him badly. Ayater nodded faintly.

  Marrita came alive at the single word, laid a tentative hand on Lyiadd's arm; he shook it off. She set her jaw, touched him gain. “Beloved, do not.”

  “I will kill her, I will kill them all,” he whispered, so softly even she barely caught the words. The generals, who could only see his profile, huddled together and away from him.

  “Lyiadd—” He turned as she touched him again. This time he did not shake her off. “I am sorry, beloved.”

  “No.” He shook his head, stopping her intended reply. “No. For me, perhaps, yes. Not because of Vess. You never liked him.”

  “No.” No point to deny it. “That does not make it I wished him dead.”

  “Because of me only,” he whispered. She shrugged.

  “Is that not reason enough?” Her fingers tightened on his arm. slid down to his wrist. “Where is the focus? Can we retrieve it?” We, she said; you, she meant. She could only do certain things through a focus at such a distance. She could not control the jewel itself, not after a morning such as this. They had bridged men, whole companies of them; had bridged them up and down the beach. She had backed Lyiadd, helped him sustain Vess’ Power when confusion and overwork caused it to go sporadic on him. It had been her Power, alone, that had brought together so many Thullen in full daylight and bridged them to the battle.

  There was still strength in her. But for the first time in more than three years, she knew it wasn't bottomless.

  Lyiadd was sweating; his shirt stuck to his breastbone; hair clung to his brow and tears still ran down his face. She could not sorrow for Vess’ death, not even for the manner of it. But she'd wish Vess alive for Lyiadd's sake. If she could.

  Lyiadd was concentrating, eyes closed. He opened them again, leaned back against the wall. “We cannot retrieve the stone. It lies nearly seven fathoms down, under a silt of mud. The water protects it from my efforts—but also from hers, if she was fool enough to take that one. Later, perhaps, we can use it again. Not—just now.”

  Marrita let go of his hand, walked over to the bowl and sank down on her knees beside it, wrapping her arms around it as far as they would reach. “I can activate this—for a few moments at a time.” Not for long. She did not add that; they both knew it. She knew, Lyiadd was rapidly learning, that distance made even his Power awkward to wield. All the same, considering the total mess the Narrans had made of their fleet, she was glad Vess had taken the Fury, that she and Lyiadd had remained safe in Yslar. The bowl cleared and showed her an astonishing sight.

  “Lyiadd. Come, quickly, look at this! It is not Ylia, or her man with his mountain Powers, who is thwarting us out there. Not only they, there is another Power, look!”

  “Where?” With a curt gesture, Lyiadd motioned his generals to observe and knelt beside her.

  “See.” Silence. The bowl cleared a little more, showing fighting everywhere, and something else: a man—the shape and sense of him was blurred. “Can you not feel him? It is the Nasath, Bendesevorian. It must be. He has returned to aid them.” Silence again. “And he has revealed himself to us, deliberately. Because otherwise, we could not see him at all.”

  Lyiadd shook his head impatiently. “One Nasath, what is that? Let me see the bay!” Marrita closed her eyes and tightened her grip on the rim of the bowl.

  There was fighting aboard the Fury; the ships that had flanked it were both on fire. All along the south shore, Thullen harried Nedaoans and their enemies both, without regard to kind; near the mouth of the Aresada, some of the Holthan mercenaries had made truce with those they fought, and bowmen of both sides were shooting at the flying horrors.

  “Pull the men back,” Ayater said. His voice was high and thin in the silent chamber. Lyiadd glowered at him, and his man hesitated, but only briefly; Ayater had been with Lyiadd for long, had never feared to give his opinion. Nor would he now. “Do it, Lord! They are not without number; you will need them for the next fight!”

  “Next?” Lyiadd's voice was ominously controlled.

  “Lord, matters have gone beyond our plans and this battle is beyond repair; bring back your armsmen, your creatures, what of the mercenaries you can salvage. The fleet is half-destroyed, and as for the other half, it will not be long behind.”

  “No.”

  “The Nedaoans are not affected by the brooches, save one, and she does not only fight with Power.” He could have bit his tongue, but the words were beyond recall. Lyiadd made no sign he had heard them. “Lord, pull back now, salvage all you can, and choose another site for battle. One you will win.” Silence. They looked at each other, at Lyiadd, across his head to Marrita.

  “No.” Lyiadd's jaw was set, his eyes grim as he bent them to the bowl. “Not yet. One last thing. And then, if there is another battle, they will come to it fewer, and weakened—and afraid indeed!” His right hand dropped down to grip Marrita's. “Go!” She bit back a sigh, cast Lyiadd's generals a resigned look over his head and complied.

  The oil darkened, fogged, swirled and suddenly cleared, showing them the Bay of Nessea, and the battle that still raged there.

  There had been a brief lull in the fighting after Lyiadd's fury broke over the fleet; Thullen were everywhere, though by now many of them were down; Ylia, Galdan and their guard had moved down the beach, fighting mercenaries, pushing through those to deal with the Ylsans behind them. But the Ylsans once again bridged away.

  There had been fighting on the docks, but Bendesevorian bridged over to find Kre'Darst and his men rounding up the Holthan crew. Merman had sheared its starboard oars and blocked its escape from one side while the Blue Conch came up from the other.

  The Nasath rested before bridging back. He was beginning to worry: After that brief, furious outburst of murderous rage, Lyiadd had made no overt move against them. It had been too long; Lyiadd and Marrita must be planning, setting that plan into motion. He could not guard against all chance, and he was very worn.

  He still grieved for Ylia, but it had been her presence in Koderra, and that only, that had brought about so much of what had happened: Vess’ death, Brit Arren's switch of allegiance and with him, most of the Sea-Raiders. Things touched against each other in strange ways when a Catalyst joined them.

  He gazed across the bay: Mal Brit Arren had secured Fury. Ylsans lay dead on her deck, a last Ragnolan flailed wildly as someone threw him overboard. The other ships across the middle line had been retaken and Brit Arren balanced precariously on the narrow railing above the afterdeck, clinging to the lines, bellowing orders to the rear line. The seaman at his side was echoing his words with signal flags. Three of the four ships left seemed disinclined to meet his demands, but neither did they seem willing to engage him; as one, they backed water, moved apart and turned. They went no further than the stranded Holthan, then turned back to wait.

  Brit Arren had a wary eye for the sea and he
could not be certain how much the ships had drifted since he'd boarded Fury. Gods of the black depths, but that is no way to board a ship! he thought fervently. How far had she drifted? He had no intention of allowing his ships to stay anywhere near that drowned stone; whatever hellish magic was in it whatever had burned the clouds, a ship would be no proof against that. Another signaler came hurtling across the deck at his command, flags in hand, and they warned the vessels to either side. With the rear line out of the way and the first line reduced to debris and two half-burned shells, it would be simple to peel off and separate.

  And so it proved, even with the stiffening breeze that increased the chop, with the tide coming in, and with smoke thick from the two burning ships on the front line. Fortunately the wind blew most of the smoke eastward, but when that died, it fell back thick around all of them.

  The northernmost ship of the third line came up into place and turned to port on signal; on the south arm, Deadly turned toward the beach. Another beat, and two more ships peeled away, pivoting and following the lead of the outer ship. Beat: Fury swung south as men strained at the oars; Threat went north.

  If Nedao's King didn't warn those Narran ramships, Fury may well join that stone on the bottom! Brit Arren thought worriedly. But it was impossible to see where Shark was. They found her as they circled the burning ships and turned back into a line. Shark was there, on the south arm of the Narran line, Barracuda on the northern end.

  Brit Arren leaped down from the afterdeck, ran forward to clamber the short front mast and clung there, staring across floating debris. A Nedaoan on Shark's main deck gazed back at him. He held up a hand, palm out, as the ships passed each other. Brit Arren sagged for the space of one deep breath; pulled himself together again. Word had gone over. But that was Teshmor's Lord Corlin!