Shadowmasque

by Michael Cobley

  Which was why conversations with Flane, captain of the Bitter Biter, were so aggravating for it seemed that the man was lying all the time.

  Finishing off the wine, he held out the stoop for another measure….and with a sideways glance saw that Rikken was staring over his shoulder at the open book. Rikken gave a start and almost snatched the beaker from Bureng’s hand in panic.

  “Sorry, master, sorry!…I never meant….”

  “Enough of that, enough!” Bureng said, amused at the man’s quivering fear. “Betrayed by your eyes, eh, Rikken? So, d’you know aught of the old tongues of the Grey Lord?”

  “N-nay, captain.”

  “Then have you the wit to comprehend the glyphs of the ancient and noble Othazi script?”

  A shake of the head.

  Bureng smiled, aware that all those on the helm deck — the tillerman, the rig-caller, and his lieutenants — were all watching and listening. Thus he laid a splayed hand on the aged pages of the codex, then tapped the intricate designs which he had been studying, five quiet taps.

  “Crevalcor knew,” he said. “He was a sorcerer of the Well who knew how to draw power together, how to focus it, and he knew how to make the dead obey…”

  A few feet away, the helmsman shuddered at his wheel while others muttered fragments of useless prayers under their breath or made surreptitious warding gestures. Bureng sense all this but continued.

  “His writings are clear and offer an abundance of guidance. Five metal objects must be taken from the wrecks of Hanavok’s ships and once engraved with these metaglyphs they will serve us well…”

  He paused, suddenly aware of something in the vicinity, something drawing near. He closed the book and got to his feet.

  “We are close,” he said. “Very close….Lookout! — what vantage?”

  “Port and aft — no sighting,” came a voice from atop the stern mast.

  “Starboard and for’ard….coastline I see, ‘bout five furlongs off the starboard bow!” came another.

  “Sickle Bay at last,” Bureng said. “Ringer — double the strike!”

  The quickened belling rang out through the mist, a pre-arranged signal that they had reached their destination. The wind was rising now, tearing long gaps in the mist, but Bureng did not need sight or the sun to know whereabouts on the seabed Hanavok’s wrecks lay mouldering. For the interleaving of his senses and his destiny led him on, as if there were some strange eye in his head which could see things hidden to others. He knew where those wrecks were and with the Crevalcor book under his arm he stood by his helmsman, ordering course changes and the reefing of sails until the Mocker reached a certain spot about half a furlong out from the bay’s eastern shore.

  “Drop the anchors!” he cried. “Smartly now — we don’t want to be staved in by the rocks that did for Hanavok.”

  As a frenzy of action erupted down on the main deck, he stood stock still, seemingly staring out at the hillocky land beyond the shore of the bay. But his sense were taking in the depths that stretched below his ship, sinking down the few fathoms to where shadowed hulks lay motionless amid jagged stones and forktail sharks….

  Ah yes, this is the place, he thought. The graveyard of a thousand ships, a cold and desolate prison. Soon I will force it to give up its ghosts.

  Then he called his lieutenants to him and issued orders, with the last given to the man he had put in charge of the diving teams.

  “Things of gold and silver are what I want most of all, Arik,” Bureng said. “Otherwise, things of iron or bronze or copper. And I’ll be calling the boats back in about 2 hourse so your boys had better work hard and fast.”

  “Aye, they will that,” said Arik, a burly, balding man known as the Bull to the rest of the crew.

  “And coins,” Bureng said. “I need a good number of smaller valuables, pearls or gems, as many as you find.”

  As Bull Arik hurried off to join the diver, who were already clambering over the side, Bureng spotted Cursed Rikken still standing by the brazier where he mulled up the wine.

  “Rikken,” he said, gesturing the man over. “We’ll be receiveing guests soon so get you to the galley and bring up a keg of ale and cask of goldpurl, and half a dozen jacks.”

  “I will, master,” Rikken said, then gathered up his various containers before hurrying below.

  See how eager he is to please and how quick to fear, Bureng thought. You could not ask for a better servant.

  As the boats of divers rowed out from the Mocker, the grey shapes of the other pirate vessels emerged from the veiled distance, following the tolling of the ship’s bell. Their wraith-like appearance grew as the fitful breeze chased away the mists. Bureng paced the confines of the helm deck, still holding the Crevalcor codex, while regularly glancing over at where the small boats were now riding the swell on their own anchor lines. And all the time he was aware of the other four captains observing the divers from their own vessels, waiting for him to run up the congering banner to invite them aboard.

  Raleth spins a coin in the air, his inner perception told him. Zanuur writes in a journal, Logrum throws daggers into a wooden bulkhead, while Flane just watches.

  The sun had slipped behind angry orange clouds by the time one of Bureng’s lieutenants turned the hourglass for the second time. Bureng closed his book and nodded.

  “Wave the red flag,” he said. “Bring ‘em back in.”

  Seeing this, the divers ceased their explorations and when the last was onboard, the boats began rowing back to the Mocker. Before long, dripping sacks of plunder were being handed up to the helm deck where Bureng had ordered a weighted trestle table set out earlier. As he looked on, two of the galley boys emptied out the first of the sacks and began sorting through a variety of unrecognisable objects clogged with mud, weeds and other seabed detritus.

  Periodically, Bureng’s attention fastened on this or that lump which was then plunged into a large basin of water and scrubbed to reveal its details. But more often than not they turned out to be pieces of pottery, bones and skull fragments, and a couple of carven marble bulkhead ornaments. As the contents of each sack was pawed through and rejected his mood darkened while his temper grew short.

  “Rubbish,” he muttered. “Rubbish and dross!” He glanced at Bull Arik who stood at the end of the table, trying to conceal his edginess. “Did you hear nothing that I said? — metal is what I need, even the meanest iron bucket — not this…” As he spoke another sackload proved to be only a tangle of seaweed, scrapes of sail, rotting leather shoes and potsherds. Bureng roundly cursed the filthy debris and was about to extend his despite to the divers gathered fearfully down on the main deck….

  When one of the last of the sacks made a dull clanking sound as it was upended onto the table. All eyes turned as the mud-splashed galley boys dug vigorously into the noisome contents, decaying wads of cloth, frayed netting, the jawbone of a horse — and a piece of iron chain about four feet long.

  May be of use, he thought, should we uncover no coin.

  Frowning, he nodded and the chain was washed and put to one side.

  After that finds came to light more readily — a round bronze shield, a plain iron helm, a bronze lantern, a brass statuette of a bear, and a small silver hand mirror, its surface pitted by corrosion. The last sack held more bones, disintegrating knots of rope, a few lead playing pieces for the game Peril, and a small iron-bound, wooden chest which rattled dully when shook. A blow from a handaxe broke the rusted lock and a slurry of mud and sand poured out, along with a score or more of gold and silver coins. Bureng smiled and his smile was reflected in everyone else’s face.

  “Good, good,” he said, scooping up a handful of the coins and letting them fall tinkling back into the chest. Then he spoke to one of the galley boys: “Get a hammer and pincers from Grezak the ironmaster, take that chain apart and put the links in with the coin.” He glanced at the other boy. “Clear away the rest of this stinking filth and wipe down the table….and I want it clean and
dry, hear?”

  As they hastily went about their tasks, Bureng straightened and sniffed the air. It was after sundown and the redness on the horizon was drowning the dark grey of rising night, and the air was cool and damp while an inconstant breeze blew off the shore. Colder weather was on its way, he surmised, but more likely as fog or mist rather than rain. Then he caught sight of Cursed Rikken standing by the deck’s wooden railing on which he had hung a closed-up wickerwork creel.

  “That you ready for our guests, Rikken?” he said.

  Rikken grinned then turned to open the creel, revealing the stubby, stoppered necks of two clay kegs. “Ready, captain.”

  “Very fine, indeed. Now, someone run up the congering banner — time to announce our most hospitable invitation…”

  “The other ships are putting out boats already, captain,” said Ferm, one of his lieutenants. “One’s near half way to us.”

  Bureng nodded as his inner eye widened to take in the seen and the unseen. Hither comes Zanuur, having written in his journal and closed the cover. After him comes Logrum who dreams of plundering Sejeend; third is Raleth and last is Flane, a most perilous man….

  He smiled at his inner thoughts, at their acute wisdom and caution, pleased at the way some of them seemed to arise from his mind of their own volition. Perhaps they were really the secret voice of his destiny, watching and guiding.

  Before long, the wiry, dark-complexioned figure of Zanuur climbed up onto the helm deck. A leather headband studded with semiprecious stone circled his brow, restraining long brown hair, while a faintly disdainful smile tugged at the man’s lips.

  “Waiting can be a burden,” he said. “Thus here I am. And my compatriots are not far behind.”

  Bureng shrugged. “Some things cannot be hurried, Zanuur, so you’ll still have to wait…Rikken, pour the man a drink.”

  With that he went over to stand behind the trestle table, now scrubbed, wiped and covered with a ragged-edged length of sky-blue sateen on which the metal trophies were arrayed. He then carefully opened the Crevalcor Codex on the table and studied the interlocking intricacies that made up the metaglyph patterns, following the lines and loops, the repeating emblem-forms, the progressions of orthograms, all intended to channel the volatile power of the Wellsource into specific function and effects. But only when the patterns were inscribed with a nimbus of power could they fulfill Crevalcor’s intent. So Bureng took from within his long, heavy coat a jeweller’s lancet, then cleared his mind to allow the sharp flux of the Wellsource to rise through him until he could taste its glassy flavour in his mouth and see its emerald glitter in his sight. When he felt it tingle in the fingers that held the diamond-tipped instrument, he bent over to study the first pattern in the codex then drew the bronze lantern closer and began.

  All his will and purpose was sunk into this task, yet as he worked part of him mind could not help but be aware of his surroundings — Zanuur tasted Rikken’s ale then asked for the goldpurl instead; Logrum of the Vandal Lord arrived and demanded a cup of each; Raleth of the Iron Fist was next to appear, choosing a beaker of ale; Flane was last, even though the Bitter Biter was moored closest to the Mocker.

  Bureng was less than half way through the lantern engraving when Flane appeared. He sensed the corsair captain’s grim regard from the moment he stepped onto the helm deck, ignored the others and came over to stand at one end of the table. A brief moment passed, then Flane casually picked up the iron helm as if to examine it closely…

  “Be so kind,” Bureng said levelly, “as to leave that well alone.”

  Everyone nearby seemed to hear the danger in his voice, as he had intended, and all eyes were on the two men. Flane appeared not to notice as he ran his thumbnail over dents in the helm.

  “What is all this for?” he said.

  It took sheer effort of will to keep his composure while maintaining the tightly-controlled flux of Wellsource power. Lifting the gleaming tip of the lancet from the lantern’s side, he looked up at Flane.

  “I have already explained,” he said. “The black sorcery of the dead — remember, captain? Each of these objects will become a talisman of great power, and you shall have one…” He took a sideway step and calmly plucked the helmet from Flane’s unresisting hands, replacing it on the table. “But not yet.”

  Then he returned to the lantern, lancet tip poised to resume its chasing.

  “I know a little magery,” came Flane’s voice. “Perhaps I might help quicken matters.”

  “Your abilities would not be sufficient, captain. Be patient.”

  “Well, ser, if I can render any assistance —”

  “No, I need nothing from you.”

  “Not even these?”

  There was a soft, clinking thud as something landed on the table top. Bureng glanced up to see a fist-sized pouch lying there with gold coins spilling from its loosely-tied neck.

  “I sent one of my men down for a look at the wrecks,” Flane said. “He came back with that.”

  Bureng switched his gaze to Flane, and held that one-eyed stare.

  A perilous man, came the thoughts of his inner eye. He could endanger your plans and mar the shining perfection of your destiny. You must deal with him, but not straight away — in time he will provide reason enough for you to crush him utterly. For now, however, he has his uses…

  Bureng let a wolfish grin show, then reached for the pouch and tipped out the rest of the coins.

  “Yes, these would indeed be of use. The five talismans I am trying to create will act as sources of the reviving spells, while these coins and others will be bound to the talismans and placed in the wrecks below, thusing anchoring the power of the spells.” A sneer crept into his smile. “Is your curiosity satisfied, Flane?”

  “Only by the merest amount,” said the captain of the Bitter Biter. “But it will do for now.”

  Then he turned his back to Bureng, gazing out at the gloomy shoreline of Sickle Bay. Bureng stared at him for a long hate-filled moment, then forced his attention back to the task at hand.

  During the next hour of waiting, Raleth swapped a series of ribald jokes with Logrum, each striving to outdo the other with obscene grotesquerie. After this, Logrum engaged Zanuur in a banter exchange that grew sarcastic and vicious, ending with Zanuur stalking off to the bows, his face like thunder. Logrum then proceeded to drink cup after cup of the goldpurl until the small cask ran dry, and was about to start on the ale when Raleth objected. Disagreement over this quickly led to raised voices that were added to by a returned Zanuur. It would have resulted in angry oaths and drawn daggers had not Flane interrupted.

  “Cease this din!” he exclaimed. “Mother’s name, I’ve heard harbour-scolds make less noise than you bickering whelps!”

  “They’d be a lot quieter if they were over the side, cooling their heads in the water,” Bureng said with an unkind smile.

  “I’ll open the guts of anyone what lays hands on me…” Then he gave Bureng a narrow-eyed look. “You done with yer scratchin’?”

  “The engravings are finished, each a perfect coil of braided spell emblems and each one made to interlock with the others.” On the table before him they lay — helm, shield, bear statuette, handmirror, and lantern, placed neatly around the small chest which now held all the coins and the chain links. A faint emerald radiance gleamed in the grooves of the patterns on the talismans, suffusing the metal of each.

  “And now?” said Flane as he and the others approached the table.

  “And now,” Bureng said, “it is time for the word!”

  And up from the dark pool in his mind came a long word of clashing, guttural syllables. Instantly, the glowing patterns on the talismans flared up in a dazzling burst of viridian light. The other four captains cursed and staggered back, shielding their eyes, Bureng just stared, delighting in the raw and lurid outrush of power. Hot, vivid light drenched everything in the vicinity and for a moment Bureng felt as if he was connected to everything and everything was in
his power.

  Then the dazzling brilliance of it waned and subsided, leaving the talismans to glow like dull green embers. But he could feel, almost see, bonds and linkages which had not been there before, a pleasing outcome.

  “”They are ready for you now,” he said and the other captains gathered round as he handed out the talismans one by one. The shield he gave to Raleth, the helm to Zanuur, the bear statuette to Logrum, and the lantern to Flane, while keeping the mirror for himself. The four captains regarded their prizes with a mixture of curiosity and wariness.

  “Now what?” said Logrum, who was holding the bear figurine as it it was a cat that might try to escape.

  “Now you all return to your ships and either place the talismans in your cabins or keep them on your persons,” Bureng said. “You will see why later. And while you are doing this, the divers will go beneath again to carry these down to the wrecks.”

  He indicated the small casket of coins and links, every piece of which now shimmered and glittered with puissance. For every piece was now ready to become a conduit for the powerful spells residing in the talismans.

  Bureng beckoned to Bull Arik, overseer of the divers, and placed the casket in his hands.

  “Go now with your men,” he said. “Give one of these thaumaglyphs to each diver for each dive — they are to stow one in every wreck, wedged into a crack or some place where it will be held fast. When all the thaumaglyphs are gone, have the divers stripped and searched — understand?”

  Grim and steady, Arik nodded. “Aye, master.”

  Soon, a flotilla of small craft began spreading from the Mocker, gigs returning the captains to their ships while some half a dozen skiffs took the divers out to return to the wrecks of the dead.

  Soon, Bureng sang in his thoughts. Soon.

  The early evening was sinking into dimness and a chilly breeze from the north was dying away. Mist was rising, harbinger of the night. At length the diving was done and from his vantage on the helm deck Bureng could see the boats draw together to allow Bull Arik to carry out a search for anything secreted. During which there was a brief struggle followed by a body being rolled over the side, then a solitary diver making a final descent.