The Night of the Swarm (Chathrand Voyage 4)

by Robert V. S. Redick

  Failure. Turn your mind in that direction and you’d find madness waiting, a vulture in a tree. Failure was darkness, death, a world devoured by the Swarm. Lifeless seas, barren hills, dead forests crumbling year by year into dust. No colours but the colours of stone. No spring renewal. No animals. No children.

  She dreamed of children, now and then. She could close her eyes and almost see them: those angelic phantoms, impish and laughing, clumsy and perfect, blends of Pazel’s features and her own. She wanted, with brute selfishness, to live on through them. Not her cheekbones or her eyes or nose but her cherished memories, the sweet story of the alliances they’d made, the trust they’d earned and given, the terrors that had proved less potent than love.

  No children would learn any of that. No tales would be shared. No history could be written of a world that had died.

  As she stared, helpless and angry, one of the seabirds lifted above the rest. It was making for the open water. Thasha stood up, frowning. The bird was flying very straight and swift – not directly towards them, but just a bit north.

  An intercept course.

  Thasha’s heart was pounding. She walked back to the others and interrupted their talk. ‘You can put down that platter, now,’ she said.

  The others just stared at her. Thasha couldn’t help it, she laughed aloud. Then she turned and shouted a name into the wind, and the moon falcon answered with a shrill, savage cry.

  Niriviel’s report confirmed the earlier signals. The bay’s entrance was a deathtrap: reefs to the north, flying boulders from the south. ‘I can come and go as I please,’ he said, ‘but I am the only one.’ And yet the travellers had no choice but to seek entrance somewhere. For Niriviel had also warned them that the Chathrand’s crew was nearing breaking point.

  ‘Forty-three have succumbed to the plague. Forty-three locked in cages, reduced to mindless beasts. And Plapps and Burnscovers kill each other in the shadows, and the deathsmokers show their faces by daylight, and there is only the one fool doctor to treat them all. The traitor Fiffengurt has been made captain, and Sergeant Haddismal permits this, and submits to his will. Or pretends to. But this is only because there is no other leader the sailors trust. Not since Captain Rose was killed.’

  ‘By a feral madwoman,’ added Hercól, ‘who appears out of nowhere, sneaks by night into his cabin, kills Rose and his steward, and succumbs instantly to the mind-plague. Quite a tale, is it not? My sword Ildraquin has led me to corpses before, but never to so mysterious a death.’

  ‘I tell you only what others claim,’ said the bird. ‘Lady Oggosk says the woman is innocent, but she was found alone with the corpses, her mouth and hands dripping blood.’

  ‘What does your master say?’ asked Thasha.

  ‘Ask him yourself, but do not expect an answer. I cannot even—’ Niriviel stopped, as though aghast at his own words.

  ‘Go on,’ said Ramachni.

  The falcon looked at him with one eye and then the other. ‘We are thousands of miles from Emperor Magad,’ he said at last. ‘Arqual is mighty, but is it mightier than Bali Adro? Should it try to be, or will it only destroy itself, as Bali Adro has done? Master Ott says that Arqual will one day rule the world, that these corrupt lands of the South will implode, and we alone shall be left standing, the inheritors of all power. But Master Ott told me to tear Lord Talag from the sky.’

  The bird flapped and fidgeted on the rail. ‘I could have killed him. The crawly flies so slowly on his flimsy wings. But I have heard Talag myself begging the island crawlies to let the Chathrand go. What sense did it make to kill him? Was it merely because he embarrassed Master Ott? But Master Ott is not the Emperor, though he has been more than Emperor to me. I did not kill Talag. I let him go to the island, and Master Ott must know by now. Master Ott knows that I lied!’

  Suddenly the bird screeched with anguish. ‘Where has he gone, where has he gone? No one aboard will tell me. Has he died, or does he just refuse my service? How could he, when he says he trusts me like his own eyes? He said that, and more. He said I was the only thing of perfection that he has ever made.’

  ‘Sandor Ott did not make you, Niriviel,’ said Ramachni. ‘I hope a day will come when you see that you are your own author, and that your tale may go on without him.’

  ‘We are as good as brothers, falcon,’ said Hercól. ‘Your master said the same to me once, before sending me out to kill.’

  ‘We are not brothers,’ said the bird. ‘I love my master and will fight for the Ametrine rone. You are a traitor. You failed him, you lied—’ The falcon broke off, confused. ‘All the same we must be … sensible. We are woken creatures after all.’

  ‘Sensible is quite good enough for today,’ said Ramachni. ‘Come, let us make a plan.’

  Two bells: it was the hour before dawn. In the bay high tide was approaching, and the waters of the inlet were slowing almost to a standstill. Both moons had set, and while the Red Storm still pulsed and flickered, its light did not penetrate the bay. The Chathrand, trying to conserve lamp oil (along with everything else) stood in darkness. It was the twelfth night of the stand-off, and it would prove to be the last.

  Atop the cliffs, the ixchel of Stath Bálfyr kept up their watch, looking for the selk ship that had sailed with obvious intent to the mouth of their island, and been warned away by the humans. The Promise had extinguished her running lights, but if she tried to enter the bay they would know it: their ixchel eyes could spot such a large ship even by starlight, even by the dimmest glow cast by the Red Storm, if that ship passed at their feet.

  But they could not see the lifeboat.

  Without sail or mast it went gliding, pulled by twenty dlömic swimmers who kept all but their heads submerged, and only raised the latter to gulp a little air at need. Over the submerged reefs they passed, among the dark schools of fish, the black shadows of larger creatures, guiding the boat through the coral maze. Only in the deepest troughs of the waves did the boat strike the coral, with a dull thump that carried a little distance, but not far enough.

  In the boat, Thasha crouched between Ramachni and Hercól. Neeps and Pazel were behind them, and last of all came Bolutu, who had insisted. ‘You heard Niriviel,’ he’d told them. ‘Ignus Chadfallow is being run off his feet. I may be an animal doctor, but I’m a blary good one. And the sooner I get aboard, the sooner I can help.’

  He and Ramachni were the only ones Hercól had not smeared with soot. The boat too he had blackened, right down to the waterline. That line would have been higher but for the last item in the boat: the Nilstone, still safe within Big Skip’s protective shells of glass and steel. Today the Stone felt heavier than lead. Wherever they moved it became the low spot in the boat.

  The half-mile inlet felt excruciatingly long. Some reefs were shaped like walls, others like rocky hilltops. The dlömu had to Rounder among them, feeling their way in the darkness, keeping the boat from any knobs or protrusions of coral, and never turning in the direction of the cliffs.

  Lunja was out there in the water, leading the swimmers, for she was the strongest of them all. After the Promise launched the lifeboat, she had swum near them and rested a hand on the gunwale.

  ‘We are nearly all in our harnesses,’ she had said. ‘And we have knives. If any of us should get entangled in the reefs we will cut ourselves free so that the others may go on, and tie on again when we can.’

  ‘The spare ropes are already secured,’ said Hercól. Take every care, Sergeant! The dangers may not all be from above.’

  ‘Whatever happens to us,’ said Ramachni, ‘you must see the Nilstone aboard. Its power would continue to flow to the Swarm of Night from the floor of the bay, or for that matter the deepest trench in the Ruling Sea.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Lunja. ‘Farewell for now.’ Still she had hesitated. Then Thasha had realised that she was looking at Neeps. The tarboy was gazing at her wordlessly; his breath seemed caught in his throat. He leaned closer, but in that moment Lunja turned and vanished in th
e darkness. Only when she was gone had Neeps managed to speak her name.

  Now a little light glowed behind them in the east. They were almost within the bay. Once there the dlömu could pull in a straight line for the Chathrand for one more unobstructed mile – and the guardians of Stath Bálfyr, with any luck, would be powerless to stop them.

  There came a hard thump near the bow. ‘Upa, that was no reef,’ hissed Pazel. ‘Something just smacked into us, by Rin.’

  ‘We are nearly out of the coral,’ said Hercól. ‘Stand by oars – let us give the swimmers all the help we can. Steady, steady … now.’

  Two sets of oars plunged into the water. Neeps was left the job of holding the Nilstone, while Ramachni kept watch upon the bow. ‘Pull!’ he urged. ‘The light is growing, and we are still too near the shore.’

  Suddenly Lunja’s head broke the surface next to them, along with those of two other dlömu. ‘That reef was like a forest of blades,’ she said. ‘Many of us are bleeding, and some of the ropes have been cut. I fear we did not bring enough spares.’

  It was then that the cry broke out: a strange trumpeting noise, strident and huge. It began on the clifftops, but was soon taken up on the north shore, which was much nearer the boat.

  ‘Away, away!’ cried Hercól. ‘They have seen us!’

  Lunja and her two companions seized the spare ropes coiled on the bow and vanished ahead. Thasha looked at the cliffs: the shadows of the boulders appeared to have multiplied.

  The trumpeting grew louder. From the north shore there came a sound of crashing and breaking limbs, as though some great herd of animals was stampeding through the forest. Then a great concussive boom sounded on their left. Spray struck their faces, and a wave lifted and rolled the boat precariously. ‘They’ve started with the rocks!’ said Neeps. ‘Say your prettiest prayers that we’re out of range. Upa! Their aim’s improving! Can’t you blary row any faster?’

  Thasha wanted to kick him, but she did row faster. Then she heard Bolutu gasp. He was looking at the northern shore.

  In the half-light, a pale strip of sand glowed between the trees and the water, and crossing it were twenty or thirty of the largest animals Thasha had ever seen. They were shaped like buffalo, or bulls, and yet not quite like either, and they stood almost as tall as the trees themselves.

  ‘Pull!’ cried Ramachni. ‘Pull for you lives! Those are drachnars, and they are the ones hurling the stones!’

  The beasts were thundering into the water. Not buffalo: they were more like elephants, great shaggy elephants that would have dwarfed any specimen in a Northern zoo. The great ogress they had fought in the mountains would scarcely have reached the shoulder of one of these. But they were not elephants either – not quite. The mouths were like shovels, with great flat incisors on the lower jaw. The trunks were much thicker and stronger than elephant trunks, and strangest of all, they divided into three halfway down their length. Yes, she thought: those trunks could grasp boulders, and hurl them. And if they could manage boulders, why not—

  ‘Look out! Look out!’

  A palm tree struck the water like a spear, not five yards away. The boat rocked wildly. Thasha rowed with all her might. She could see now that many of the creatures were grasping logs or stones that they had dragged out of the forest, and some were already rearing up to hurl them. Others were still wading into the bay. They had come several hundreds yards already, and the water was not yet to their necks.

  ‘Halfway!’ said Ramachni. Pain seering Thasha’s arms, her shoulders. On the ship, lamps blazed. Thasha could hear screeching – Oggosk’s screeching; had she ever imagined she could miss it? – and the rattle of davit-chains. The drachnars pelted them with whatever they could scavenge – old logs, young trees, even the remains of some other wreck. But the dlömu were swimming in formation, now, and pulling like a team, and soon the north shore fell behind them, and they were out of range.

  Then Niriviel swept down out of the sky. ‘I could not warn you,’ he cried, hovering. ‘Those creatures have never emerged by daylight. We did not know what we faced.’

  ‘Never mind,’ shouted Hercól. ‘But tell us, brother, has Fiffengurt prepared the ship? Is she ready for the Ruling Sea?’

  ‘The Ruling Sea!’ cried Niriviel. ‘You do not know what you are saying. The crawly lunatics will never let us depart. Can you not see them, riding on the heads of the monsters ashore?’

  ‘Riding them!’ said Ramachni. ‘Well, there is the secret of Stath Bálfyr’s defences: the ixchel have tamed the drachnars, or at least allied with them to fight intruders. No, falcon, our eyes cannot match your own. But hurry, now: back to the Chathrand. Tell Fiffengurt to start weighing anchor, if he has not begun already.’

  ‘I will tell him,’ said Niriviel, ‘but there is no way out of this bay.’

  The falcon departed. Pazel glanced over his shoulder at the Chathrand, caught Thasha’s eye, and forced himself to smile. Whatever lay ahead, they were almost home.

  Two of the dlömic swimmers returned to the boat. They were clearly weakened, and once aboard Thasha saw that they were bleeding from many spots. ‘Bandages, Undrabust!’ shouted Hercól. ‘You two: are no others hurt?’

  ‘How could we know?’ they said. ‘In dark water it is hard to judge your own wounds, let alone someone else’s. But Lunja must have had the worst of it, for she led us through that coral maze.’

  ‘Then she should come in!’ cried Neeps.

  ‘So we told her. But she paid no attention.’

  ‘The Chathrand is lowering a skiff,’ said Ramachni, gazing ahead. ‘We must see the wounded aboard first – and then the Nilstone, and Thasha. Pazel, you must go too, since Erithusmé bid you escort her, and – Oh fiends beneath us, no!’

  On either side of the boat, dark fins sliced the water. They were sharks: the same grey, man-sized creatures that had trailed the serpent off Cape Lasung. But these sharks were not following any serpent. They were following blood.

  Everyone in the boat howled a warning. Someone among the swimmers must have heard, for they all broke formation, and then began to pull for their lives.

  ‘They’ll be slaughtered!’ cried Neeps. Hercól stood and raised his bow.

  ‘Put that away, are you mad?’ cried Ramachni, leaping onto the prow. ‘Cut the swimmers free, and row on!’ With that the little mink launched himself from the prow, and took owl-form before his body could strike the waves.

  Hercól drew his knife and slashed at the ropes. He was leaning far over the prow, and Thasha clung desperately to his belt, terrified that he too would fall among the sharks.

  ‘Who’s that one, what’s he doing?’ cried Pazel.

  Thasha squinted: one of the dlömu was peeling away from the rest – and the sharks were following. As they had done off Lasung, the creatures hunted in a tight school that never divided. It seemed that terror had overcome one swimmer, who must have expected the sharks to follow the larger group. But who knew how that collective mind made its choices? The lead shark reached the swimmer, and Thasha saw the dlömu turn and open its arms – a gesture strangely like an embrace. Thasha closed her eyes for an instant; when she looked again the swimmer was gone.

  Ramachni passed over the sharks, folded his wings, and dived.

  The dlömu were making for the Chathrand with what remained of their strength. But now the sharks turned like a single body, resuming the attack. The lifeboat fell further behind. Neeps was almost sobbing as he cried Lunja’s name.

  Suddenly a change came over the water around the sharks. At first Thasha could not tell what it was. Then she knew: the water was boiling. Seconds later it was turning to lethal steam.

  Oh, thank the Gods. Ramachni was surfacing, in eguar-form, and the unimaginable heat of his body was literally vaporising the sea. They could see him, a dark monstrosity suspended in foam; and they could smell the sulphuric fumes. The nearest sharks were killed instantly; those behind swam on, blood-maddened, to their deaths. Many scattered in confusion, but th
ey never regrouped and pressed the attack. In another minute the first dlömu were hauling themselves into the skiff that bobbed by the Chathrand’s side.

  The beast that was Ramachni kept its distance, but its white-hot eyes blazed at them out of the steam. ‘Row on!’ cried Hercól. ‘Our mage himself is in some danger, I fear – else he would not turn those eyes upon us.’

  At last they neared the ship. High above, men were labouring at the capstan, raising the skiff and the wounded dlömu to the deck. Then a high voice rang out over the water:

  ‘Triumph! Triumph! Triumph! Triumph! Triumph!’

  Thasha looked up and burst into tears of joy. Fiffengurt and Marila were waving from the rail, shouting their names over and over. The mastiffs were baying to raise the dead, their paws and faces appearing and vanishing again. Suddenly Fiffengurt turned and beckoned, and a mob, a throng rushed the rail, cheered them, bellowed at last without reservations, without divisions or doubt. And through it all she could still hear Felthrup, hysterical, squeaking Triumph! as though it were the only word he knew.

  Ramachni, still in eguar-form, raced away from them at high speed. ‘Where in the Nine Pits does he think he’s going?’ asked Pazel. But at that instant the great, black form of the eguar vanished, and the small, helpless form of the mink took its place.

  ‘Gods of death, he is barely swimming!’ said Bolutu. He stood and dived without another word, and swam powerfully towards the mage.

  ‘Don’t you understand?’ said Thasha. ‘Ramachni had to be moving fast when he changed back. If he let the water heat around him he’d have been killed just like the sharks.’

  When Bolutu returned with his small burden, the mage was too exhausted even to stand. Thasha took him and tried to dry him with her shirt.

  The cheering went on and on. Soon the lifeboat from the Promise was snug in the davit-chains and rising up the Chathrand’s side. ‘That transformation has cost me,’ said Ramachni. ‘I may recover my strength before I leave this world – but then again, I may not. You must not depend on me if it comes to fighting again.’