by David Drake
"Two people who need to buy passage to Britain," Mael said, as calmly as if he had not been challenged.
"Well, go find another bloody ship," the sailor snarled. "This one's headed for bloody Gaul on the next tide."
"I said 'buy,' " Mael remarked, knuckling his purse so that the heavy coins within gnashed together.
The sailor looked around with a somewhat different expression. He tossed his quirt to a companion. "I'm Vatidius," he said. "I'm the captain. Let's go get a drink and we'll see." Back over his shoulder he roared to his men, "Get 'em loaded right or I'll have your bloody hides when I get back!"
While Veleda sold the horses to a drover with a string of twenty, Mael and Vatidius bargained over bad beer and worse wine respectively. Vatidius was not the owner of the transport, merely a captain hired by a Breton consortium. He had no authority to do anything but sail straight for home with his cargo. Mael found the shipmaster brutal and stupid, but also venal. They struck a bargain after two cups of the wine. The bribe was sizable, but Vatidius swore he would have to pay his five seamen out of it for their silence as well. It was Arthur's money, anyway, and with as little direct trade as there was between the islands, Mael was willing to call the price fair.
Veleda and the cloth-covered reliquary, their only baggage, were waiting with the loaded freighter when Mael and Vatidius returned. Mael wondered briefly at Veleda's income—not until she sold the horses had it occurred to him that she must somehow have bought them as well. But that was no great matter; perhaps she told fortunes for the rich. Mael took her hand and nodded. Vatidius was already shouting, "Get your bloody asses on, then, and don't get in the way!"
The ramp had been dismantled so the three of them splashed aboard through the foul harbor water. Mael and Veleda watched in silence as the vessel was poled off shore. When the water was deep enough, four men began to work the sweeps. The remaining seaman watched the harbor over the tall cutwater, while Vatidius himself knelt astern at the steering oar.
The ship—if she had a name, Mael never heard it spoken—was a dozen feet wide amidships. Passage forward or aft was too tight for safety from the teeth or hooves of a nervous horse. All the beasts stood crosswise, their heads to port, lashed to reinforced thwarts intended to hold even horses frightened by tacking or bad weather. The sail was a single square of linen, hoisted to catch the fitful west wind as soon as the vessel cleared the harbor. The two men on the forward sweeps went astern as soon as they had shipped their long oars. The lookout followed. Mael and Veleda were left with only three of the snorting horses to keep them company forward of the mast.
"I don't like either the ship or the crew," Veleda said, her back cushioned from the gunwale by Mael's right arm. There was no chop, so even in the extreme bow they were dry.
"Who could?" Mael agreed with a shrug. "But we'll be shut of them soon enough if the wind holds. Are you tired?"
"Go ahead and nap," she answered. "You're still healing."
Mael smiled and squeezed her. He managed to nod off almost at once. Veleda did not let a frown of concern show on her face until after she was sure the Irishman was asleep. From time to time her eyes locked with those of one or more of the polyglot seamen as they worked the ship. None of the sailors came any nearer than was necessary to feed and water the horses. Horse dung lay where it fell. The breeze blew the green odor toward the bow.
Clouds rolled up from the west to catch the sun before it reached the horizon.
* * *
The sky was pitch-dark when Mael awakened to the crash of the falling spar. He snatched at his dagger left-handed. Embarrassed, he immediately resheathed the weapon when he realized the crew was simply taking in the sail by the light of a horn lantern. Vatidius gave his passengers a wave and a gap-toothed grin. After a moment he came forward, still holding the lantern. His men appeared to be furling the sail. It was difficult to see the crewmen because of the darkness and the intervening horses.
"Don't want to go driving up on the bloody shore, do we?" the shipmaster said cheerfully. "That's not the kind of arrival you paid for, is it?"
Mael gave a noncommittal grunt. Veleda said nothing, but her body tensed. Vatidius squatted down in front of his passengers anyway, talking enthusiastically. "Going to be glad to get back to Britain, I suppose."
Mael nodded. He had told the shipmaster only that he was returning to Arthur. It didn't matter that the Gaul mistook him for a Briton. He said, "Glad to be back on dry land, anyway."
Vatidius' hand on the lantern kept the light from his own eyes, shrouding his whole face. Not far away the water slapped, making one of the horses whicker in response. "Yes," the captain went on, "I know you landsmen. I never had any luck on shore, myself, and little enough at sea. . . ." His voice trailed off. Then he added, "Tell you one thing that does surprise me, though—that box you carry." Veleda was murmuring under her breath, the words only a bone-felt vibration to Mael. He stiffened. The reliquary lay between his legs and Veleda's. As unobtrusively as possible, he cleared his right arm.
"I mean," Vatidius was saying, "most people'd have baggage for as long a trip as you're making. Folk of quality like you, you know. But the box, it's not real baggage, now, is it? Just wondering, of course."
"It's just got some bones in it," Mael said. "Just some saint's relics, that's all." Did one of the sailors around the mast hold a javelin?
"Now isn't that something?" said Vatidius. "Now me—you know how sailors are. If you hadn't told me, I'd have imagined there were, oh—jewels, say, in the box from the way you carry—"
"Mael!" Veleda shouted. There was a huge splash behind them. Mael's feet lashed out, skidding the casket hard against Vatidius' knees and spilling the lantern. Even as Mael kicked, he was turning. A Syrian seaman was lunging over the rail with a knife in his right hand. The sailor must have slipped into the calm water and pulled himself along the boat's side while Vatidius occupied the passengers. Mael's right elbow caught the sailor in the throat with all his strength behind the blow. Gurgling, the Syrian pitched back into the sea.
Vatidius struck in the darkness. He rang an oak belaying pin off the side of the Irishman's skull. Mael bounced against the gunwale and fell back. He was conscious, but none of his limbs seemed to work. The captain's black bulk raised against the sky, readying a finishing blow.
At first Mael thought that Veleda had cried out and thrown something. She stretched her right hand toward Vatidius. A worm of purple fire uncurled from one slim finger and struck the Gaul. The flame-thing did not seem to move swiftly, but even before Vatidius could scream, its flattened ribbon had wrapped about his throat. One end of it buried itself deep in the captain's chest. Then the scream came and purple fire burst with it out of the burly man's mouth and nostrils. The flash lit the whole forepart of the ship.
The purple glare caught the remaining seamen running toward the prow. Each had an upraised weapon. The sailors froze as their captain, his torso shrinking in on itself and the fire licking all about him, threw himself overboard. Steam hissed when he struck the water. Veleda spoke again. Two more serpents of fire rippled from her hand. One of the sailors hurled his javelin. The metal popped and sizzled as the purple flame coursed through it The air stank with the harshness of a lightning strike.
All six horses went mad together. The harness and attachments that might have been adequate in a storm disintegrated as supernatural terror drove the animals. Showering wood fragments, the beasts plunged into the sea in near unison. They carried two of the sailors with them in their rush. A third seaman overbalanced when the three-ton cargo leaped to port and sent the vessel pitching. That man flipped over the starboard rail. The last crewman deliberately jumped, an inch ahead of the flame that had darted for his eyes. The purple light winked out as the intended victim cleared the rail.
The moon came out from behind the clouds. There was no longer any sign of the living flames. One of the seamen was still afloat, swimming blindly away from the vessel. He was dwarfed by the frothing
horses. They neighed in panic as they kicked white pools of foam in the calm water around them. The beasts could swim well—for a time—but the immensity of the sea terrified them. They tried to lunge higher in the water to sight the shore. Two of them reached the sailor at almost the same moment. They battled viciously with their teeth and front hooves, each seeing the man as a place to rest. Long before the horses had parted, their feet had pulped the sailor and driven his remains deep into the sea.
The boat rocked and pitched at the fury of the big animals around it. One of them approached the vessel. The horse's fear of the witch flames had been dwarfed, as everything else was, by the huge expanse of salt water.
Mael pulled himself upright. A javelin stuck up from the planks halfway between him and the mast. He stepped to it and tugged it out. The blade was warped and dulled by the fire that had touched it, but its point was sharp enough to serve. The nearing horse, a chestnut stallion, kicked upward. Its hoof rang on the hollow side of the ship. Its head sank, then rose again from the water in a froth of effort. This time the horse swung its left foreleg over the rail. The vessel lurched toward its weight.
Mael lunged, driving the javelin into the horse's chest at the junction of neck and shoulder. The beast's jaws started and it screamed like a human. Both forelegs kicked straight up, the left fetlock shattering the railing as they glanced together. Mael jerked his weapon free. The chestnut dived backwards into the water. It did not come up again. Two more of the horses paddling frantically around the vessel came nearer.
A bow and a spilled quiver of arrows lay amidships. Mael saw them and judged the distance of the approaching horses. He tossed the javelin sideways to Veleda, shouting, "Hold them off a minute!"
"But they're horses! They'll drown!"
"Hell drink your soul, woman!" the Irishman cried. "They'll drown us by trying to get aboard!"
Mael snatched up the bow. Veleda, weeping, slapped the nearest horse across the muzzle with the spear shaft. The horse shied back and sank to nostril height. Its companion, a black mare, kicked and knocked the spear away. Mael shot the horse behind the ear. The animal went limp and sank without a sound.
The arrows were crooked and the boat provided a shaky platform to shoot from. Mael locked his hip against the rail and leaned outward so that the point of his arrow was almost touching the other horse before he released. The arrow penetrated half its length but missed the brain. The beast turned away, whinnying and leaving a swirling trail of blood.
There were twelve more arrows in the quiver. Mael fired them all. When he was finished, the sea was clear of all life but himself and his companion. Mael set the bow against his knee and snapped the staff into halves. Then he leaned the halves against the gunwale and broke them again with his foot. When he was finished, he hurled the fragments as far as he could into the sea. They floated over the bodies of their victims.
Mael leaned against the rail. Veleda's cool hands touched his neck and right biceps. Memories of her fingers skittered through Mael's mind; comforting him with their pressure—stroking his groin to unbearable lust—burning Vatidius' lungs away with a ribbon of fire—
Mael screamed and jerked away from the woman.
Veleda stared at him as if he had slapped her. "I had to!" she cried.
"I'm sorry," Mael said, pressing his hands together to have something to do with them. He would not meet her eyes. So delicate, so . . . "I know you had to, I really do, it was your life and mine and maybe Starkad's, too. . . . And I'm really glad you could, could do something about those sailors, because I sure as hell couldn't. But just for now I, well, my mind is . . ." He looked up at Veleda and bit his lower lip. Then he burst out, "Manannan MacLir, woman, I just don't want to b-be touched right now! That's all."
Veleda stepped back from Mael's pitiful anger. "No," she said, "that's not all. But it's not your fault either." She looked back at the western sky. "I think we're going to get some wind soon," she said. "If we can get the sail up, we can get out of this . . . stretch of ocean. I think we'd both be happier for that."
The breeze was sudden and strong. The vessel was squirrelly with neither cargo nor ballast, but the wind was dead astern. There was no real danger even in their undercrewed state. Mael wondered briefly whether that was a result of Veleda's art, too, but he put the thought aside hurriedly.
Veleda had saved both their lives.
Mael steered by the stars and an inner compass that failed him about as often as it brought him where he wanted to go. At the moment he felt he would be just as happy if the boat gutted itself on a rock in mid-ocean, so of course his luck carried him straight to his destination with an accuracy no practiced navigator could have guaranteed. Seas rustling on the shoreline to the north brought Mael to steer that way. Half an hour later, Veleda pointed to the river mouth that gaped blackly between the fringes of surf to either side. "That's the Tuvius," she said. "We're within ten miles of Moridunum and the villa."
Mael did not bother to ask her how she knew.
A mud bank brought the ship to a halt that seemed fairly gentle, until the mast snapped and went crashing over the side. Mael was jarred off his feet. He stood, picked up the reliquary, and walked to the bow. It rested a dozen feet from shore. Veleda followed, her face calm. Mael looked over the rail, then back at Veleda. "I'm sorry," he said. "I really can't tell you how sorry I am about—the way I acted." Very deliberately, he extended his right hand to her. "I'll lower you down, then I'll jump."
Veleda smiled with tears bright in the corners of her eyes. Grasping Mael's big hand with both of hers, she lowered herself into the shallow water and waited for him. Mael tried not to shudder at the touch of her fingers. The two of them waded to shore together, into a small crowd that the noise had brought out of bed with torches and half their clothing.
One bulky spectator was mounted on a good horse. He trotted forward and demanded, "What happened? You aren't just going to leave your ship like that, are you?"
Mael eyed him flatly. "No," he said, "I'm going to trade it to you for two horses."
The rider blinked and pulled his maroon cloak closer about him. He was fully dressed but his tunic was inside out. "Trade?" he repeated. "Why, that's—I mean, how do I even know you own the thing?"
"Look," Mael snapped, "either I own it and you're getting one hell of a bargain, or I cut the throats of the people who did own it and you aren't wearing a sword. Now, do you have another horse handy or—"
In ten minutes Mael and Veleda—on a pony that was adequate for her weight and the short distance—were riding north along the east bank of the River Towy. The casket was again lashed to the back of Mael's saddle.
Chapter Seven
The night was warm. The six guards on duty at the villa's front entrance were outside, under a torch. At that distance the sounds of their dice game would not disturb the chieftains quartered within the building. When the guards heard the approaching horses, they swept up the dice and checked their weapons. A messenger was more likely than a sudden attack, but—it was cheap enough to be ready, that was all.
Mael reined up in the circle of torchlight and dismounted, He began to unstrap the reliquary. "We've got to see Arthur," he said. "At once."
Two of the guards laughed. None of them answered.
Mael pulled the last tie loose and turned in fury with the casket in his hands. "Look, ye cunt-brains," he snarled, a little of his Erse lilt quivering through the anger in his voice, "it's five hundred miles your Arthur has sent me to fetch this back—with my friend's life the forfeit if I failed. I'll have Arthur awake now to see it, do you hear?"
Hands hovered near weapon hilts. The guard officer said, "No, I recognize him. He's the one we escorted off to Ireland. Godas, knock on the Leader's door and see if he wants to talk to this one now."
Doubtful but obedient, the named guardsman slipped into the villa. A moment later the door reopened. First through it was the guard. To Mael's amazement, the second man was Arthur himself. The king must have
been asleep, but even so he had slid into his boots and pulled his coat of mail on over his bare shoulders before coming to the door. The links would be uncomfortable without padding beneath them, but they were less uncomfortable than a spear thrust through naked skin. Kings had died before through neglecting to arm themselves as they rushed out into the night. Behind Arthur was his seneschal Cei, a short, stocky man who was also in armor. He carried a drawn sword in one hand, in the other a lantern. Cei blinked in its radiance, looking as logy as a denned bear and as ill-tempered.
There was soft motion from the darkness to Mael's right as well. Mael turned and squinted. Unsummoned but not unexpected, Merlin stepped into the converging spheres of torch and lantern light. The wizard was barefoot and wearing the same simple tunic as before. His fingers toyed with another willow switch. Merlin's eyes searched Mael and the casket eagerly. Then his peripheral glance at Veleda penetrated and he froze. He glared at the woman. She stared back at him, overtly as calm as a stone.
"What's she doing with you?" Merlin demanded of Mael.
The Irishman's eyebrows rose with his temper. "Bringing a bloody lizard skull back." Mael turned to Arthur. "Where's Starkad?"
Arthur shrugged the question away. "He's here, he's fine. Did you bring the skull?"
"Where the hell is 'here'?" Mael shouted. "If anything happened to Starkad, I'll—" He remembered where he was and let the rest of the threat go unvoiced.
The king smiled and said very precisely, "Recruit, every one of the instructors placed over your friend has requested the Dane be discharged as unfit—too undisciplined to teach and too dangerous to have around. He hasn't gone anywhere, however. You'll find them, perfectly healthy, in his billet. As soon as you can give me the skull."
Mael pressed the latch of the casket and opened it. Merlin and the king crowded around. Cei and the other Companions hung back, curious but more afraid. The wizard traced around the small eyesockets with his left index finger, then ran down the line of the snout. "Yes. . . ." he said. "Tonight we can begin the work."