‘For months they tortured me, body and soul. I prayed for death. I told them lies, then truth. At last I confused the two myself, and said whatever I thought would make them stop. Nothing made them stop. I tried to starve myself; they injected me with a poison that left me limp, and forced gruel down my throat.
‘But a day came when I was delivered from agony. Only then did I learn that I had been taken to Etherhorde, and tortured in the bowels of Castle Maag itself, somewhere beneath those pretty walks and gardens. Word of me had reached the admiralty, and Emperor Magad surrendered me to my brothers-in-arms. Above all he feared a soldiers’ revolt. He got it anyway, of course.’
‘It’s gone that far, has it?’
‘Much further, in fact. Burn the Lord Admiral and his son to death in their kitchen and you’ll pay, even if you do wear the crown.’
‘Night Gods, Commodore!’
Darabik shook his head. ‘A shameful tale, and a long one. The point is, there was a revolt: nearly a third of the Home Forces abandoned the Usurper, fled west, and joined Maisa’s campaign. I went with them, and have been fighting ever since. In that time I have won more battles than I have lost. But things have changed recently, and not for the better. Captain, you must make for Serpent’s Head.’
The gathering of Maisa’s forces was to occur on the fifth day of Teala, barely one week away. They could still make it, said Darabik. Fiffengurt reminded him that their task was to rid Arqual of the Nilstone, not the Emperor of Arqual.
‘Yes, the Nilstone,’ said Darabik uncertainly. ‘Prince Eberzam spoke of it with dread. I still don’t know what exactly it is.’
‘And you don’t want to,’ said Fiffengurt. ‘You’ve got the Gods’ own luck anyway. We’ll take you to Serpent’s Head, by way of the archipelago. There’s no safer course to Gurishal from here.’
Darabik had gone suddenly rigid. ‘To … Gurishal?’
Fiffengurt grinned the grin of a suicide.
‘But that is madness, man. You cannot hope to slip past the Mzithrinis.’
‘Hope? What’s that? But you’re right, Commodore. That’s why Ott sent us off into the Ruling Sea to begin with, you know: to get around the White Fleet, and come up on Gurishal from behind.’
‘Madness,’ said the commodore again. ‘Perhaps before the war, the western flank of Gurishal was left unguarded. But not today. The Sizzies know Ott wanted to give the Nessarim back their Shaggat – we told them, we announced it to the world! Every harbour is watched, and every approach. The whole island is under quarantine.’
Fiffengurt’s grin was melting away. ‘You can’t quarantine an island that enormous,’ he said.
‘Can’t you? If it’s bursting with fanatics awaiting the return of the greatest mass-murderer in history?’
‘Trouble is, Commodore, we have to go to Gurishal.’
‘You can’t.’
Darabik said no more, and Fiffengurt was left blinking at the sunset, and trying to calm his nerves. But when darkness fell, Pazel and his allies gathered in the wheelhouse and spoke to the commodore again. Darabik’s mood had also darkened. He asked that they light no lamp. On that moonless night they could barely see his face.
‘I told you we numbered ninety thousand a year ago,’ he said. ‘That is true, and I might have said more: we took Opalt, for a time, and held the mainland all the way to the banks of the River Ipurva. But this year the fight has gone poorly. Magad has turned the east into a war-making machine. We sink a ship, and two more launch from the Etherhorde shipyards.’
‘North and South begin to mirror each other,’ said Kirishgán sadly.
Darabik took no notice. ‘The Mzithrinis are willing to sell us ships, but our coffers are empty,’ he said. ‘Without gold we are nothing to the Black Rags. Lately they have seen fit to drive us from their waters, into the teeth of our enemies. And … there is another rumour, though I do not know whether to believe it.’
A deep note of worry had entered his voice. ‘Tell us,’ said Ramachni.
Darabik hesitated, then his dark shoulders gave a shrug. ‘A cloud that kills. They say it is as large as Bramian, and that in movement it is less like a cloud than a living thing. Nonsense, probably. Tall tales sprout like weeds in wartime.’
The allies sat in rigid silence, barely breathing, until Darabik asked them what was wrong.
All through the night the Chathrand sped west. With the first glimmer of dawn Fiffengurt sent men aloft to spread more canvas, indeed all the canvas she could bear. More rain fell, lashing and cold. More jagged islands appeared off the starboard bow. The ship followed these Baerrid Isles, tacking along one side of the snake. No one who had heard Darabik’s words repeated them – the crew was close enough to despair as it was – but they could not stop themselves from glancing at the sky. The Swarm was here already, and it had grown huge.
The days passed, grey gloomy light. Between the wave-tortured islands the lookouts spotted ships, plying the calmer waters of the Nelu Rekere, but they were too distant to be identified. Darabik was confident that they were Maisa’s forces, but Fiffengurt took no chances, and lit no flares. The nights were cool, but Pazel could not sleep. When he closed his eyes he felt the darkness crushing him, drowning him, a black wax pouring down from the sky.
In the outer stateroom Neeps and Marila shouted at each other, and some of the last dinner plates were smashed. The dogs howled and Felthrup wept. But late at night Pazel would creep out and find Neeps and Marila sleeping under the gallery windows, curled up together like children, arm in arm.
They are children. They were. All of us were, so recently.
Lying awake one night, Pazel saw a flicker of red in the window glass. He reached out a hand: the glass was trembling in its frame. Quietly, he left Thasha’s cabin. In the outer stateroom he found Felthrup staring out at the Chathrand’s wake.
The rat crept to his side. ‘You saw it too,’ he whispered. ‘We are almost there, Pazel. I can smell the reek of the volcano.’
They went above. The rain had stopped and the night was clear. There off the port bow stood Serpent’s Head, a tall black mountain-mass, spitting fire in great arcs over the western ocean, like a queen throwing riches to a mob. Pazel could smell it now, too: the rotten-egg smell of sulphur, the world’s carbolic breath.
The burning mountain terrified Felthrup. ‘Why would anyone choose to hold a gathering there?’ he asked.
‘Because no one lives on Serpent’s Head,’ said Pazel. ‘No villagers, no fishermen.’
‘No one to talk about you later, to an enemy?’
‘Or be tortured for their silence. That’s my guess.’
For the rest of the night they watched the strange island grow nearer. Several times ash fell from the heavens, a black sticky snow. But Serpent’s Head was not all smoke and fire: steep hills dominated the eastern half of the island, and at daybreak Pazel saw palm trees silhouetted against the sky.
There was also a ring of jagged islets about Serpent’s Head: spires of magma, coughed out by the volcanoes over the centuries. By the growing light, Pazel saw that their course would soon take them between these islets and Serpent’s Head.
‘I’ll be damned,’ he said to Felthrup. ‘Someone aboard knows this place. Look there, off to starboard. Do you know what that is?’
‘A seagull?’
‘A beach, Felthrup. Not much of one, but definitely a beach. And these little islets, they’re as good as a sea wall.’
‘Meaning that we could land a boat there?’
‘We could try.’
A moist hand dropped on Pazel’s shoulder. ‘We will be trying, lad.’
It was Mr Druffle: stone sober, grinning. ‘Don’t look so shocked. The twenty-foot launch can handle these waves. At least that’s the captain’s expectorant.’
Pazel and Felthrup blinked at him. ‘Expectation,’ corrected Felthrup.
Druffle shrugged. ‘Go roust your mates,’ he said. ‘Them as want to go ashore should assemble in ten minutes flat.�
��
‘Ten minutes?’ cried Pazel. ‘But Mr Druffle, they’re not even awake!’
‘Tough blubber, my Chereste heart. Empress Maisa’s officers are already landing on the north shore. It’s five Teala: her war-council starts today. And sure, the waves are becalmed here, in the lee of them lava-isles. But there’s a ripping strong current too. We can’t hold position, unless we anchor, and what fool would anchor here? No, the ship’s better off out in the Nelluroq, where she’ll have no company. She’ll circle round and collect us tomorrow, after we learn what Maisa’s rebels can give.’
‘But why not just head to the north shore ourselves?’
‘Because we’re a weird sight, that’s why. Think, Pathkendle! This ship was at the heart of Magad’s blary conspiracy, and no one’s seen her in six years! We can’t just pop up like the provisional weasel.’
‘Provisional!’ shrilled Felthrup. ‘Sir, your imprecisions are disastrous. First of all, the word is proverbial. Second, there is no proverb; there is only a nonsense rhyme.’
‘A school-master rat,’ muttered Druffle. still grinning. ‘Riddle out this one, then: Froggy and field mouse walked to the fair. Froggy said to field mouse, ‘Tie back your hair—’
‘Impossible!’
The argument was cut short by the peal of the ship’s bell. At once boots began to pound, and orders began to fly: mainsails in, capstan teams to their stations! Fegin blew shrill notes on his whistle. Mr Druffle slapped Pazel on the back.
‘Get your mates on their feet! Bite ’em, pour soup on ’em, kick ’em ’til they curse! We’re going ashore!’
The landing was dismal. The twenty-foot launch flipped in the breakers. Groping at the hull in the icy froth, Pazel watched their food parcels sink like stones. The next wave lifted him, thrashed him down, ground him between the boat’s gunnels and the sand. Pazel just waited; the sea shrugged the boat aside. When he stood the wind’s bite was colder than the sea’s.
They fought the vessel ashore, counting heads. Druffle, Darabik, Thasha, Neda, Neeps, Bolutu, Hercól, Kirishgán: no one was missing; everyone was bruised. Neda spat a mouthful of sand and blood; Neeps kicked the boat, then cursed and grabbed his foot. Darabik cursed with more flair and passion than Pazel had ever heard in an officer. It was his second dunking in a week.
Only Ramachni was dry: he had leaped from the boat in owl-form, glided to the beach, and resumed his normal shape. He watched their struggle from atop a warm-looking stone.
‘I did call for the forty-footer,’ he said.
‘Go to the Pits,’ said Thasha.
Hercól laughed aloud. ‘No harm in a brisk morning swim. But for the sake of our more delicate comrades we should get out of this wind.’
‘And across this mucking island,’ said Darabik. ‘Her Majesty’s council is surely already convened on the north shore. If you truly mean to attempt this lunacy involving Gurishal, you will need all the help we can provide.’ He shook his head. ‘Of course, it will not be enough.’
‘Walk now, and mope later,’ said Druffle. ‘Follow me, shipmates! Never mind your little bumps!’
His good spirits did not flag as he led them inland. He claimed to know Serpent’s Head – it was a famous stop for smugglers – but could that account for his glee? Now that Pazel thought about it, Druffle had been grinning since the rescue of Darabik’s men. Now he walked along laughing softly to himself, and making a happy buzzing sound in his throat.
It was an exhausting morning. Though not mountainous, this end of Serpent’s Head was mostly desolate, criss-crossed with dry rivers of lava twisting down like mammoth tree-roots from the heights. There were cracks and fissures and bare bulbous hills. Above them, the volcano moaned and hissed.
But the trees Pazel had seen were real too: they stood in clumps like islands in the dead landscape, oases spared by chance. There were young palms and rugged tree-ferns, vines and sprays of scarlet flowers, hummingbirds and ants. Pazel found them all the more lovely for their delicate, doomed courage. As for Mr Druffle, he ran up breathlessly to each oasis, studying the treetops. Each time this happened his smile faded, only to break out again as his eyes moved to the next clump of trees.
Thasha was questioning Darabik for the twentieth time about her father. ‘Yes, m’lady, I do expect him,’ said the commodore. He allowed himself a grudging smile. ‘Needless to say he won’t be expecting you.’
‘Will he be coming ashore?’
‘Will he! I’d like to meet the man who could stop him! No, the admiral never waits for us to secure an island. With the deepest respect, Lady Thasha, your father is an impossible man.’
‘It runs in the family, Commodore,’ said Pazel, dodging Thasha’s fist.
For five hours they trudged and scrambled. When they grew thirsty Druffle showed them how to suck dew from the fern-fronds. There were no trails, but now and then they passed small mounds of clam shells. Druffle claimed they were trail markers, and over time he was proved correct: the mounds led them sensibly enough through the lava-maze.
‘I can hear the surf on the north shore,’ said Kirishgán. ‘When we pass over that next hill I think we shall see it.’
The hill in question was large and crowned with a particularly lovely stand of trees. They began to climb, drinking in the birdsong. Pazel turned and looked back to the south. He could see the coast in the distance, but not the Chathrand: she was gone until tomorrow at the earliest.
Suddenly Druffle exploded: ‘There! There! D’ye see it? Sweet teacups in heaven, my darlings! It’s honey!’
He dashed up the rest of the hill, and before anyone could stop him began to scale a palm. In his manic state he had found the agility of a young man, if not a monkey. Pazel shielded his eyes: near the fronds at the treetop, bees were boiling. The others saw them too, and they all shouted warnings. But Druffle paid no heed. Up the tree he went, straight to the hive, and when he reached it he plunged in his hand to the wrist. Drawing it out again, he held up a mass of something sticky and pale. He took a great bite of it and hooted with joy.
‘What did I tell you? Island honey! Straight from the fuzzy arses of the gentlest creatures in Rin’s green earth. Stingless bees! What do they need stingers for, eh?’
Pazel was laughing in spite of himself; most of the others were as well. ‘Blary lunatic,’ said Neeps.
‘Come and taste, come and taste! They don’t need stingers. No bears in the islands to steal this gold. Only me, only lucky Druffle, whose dream just came—’
A sharp sound. Druffle’s back arched terribly. He fell forward, the honey-hand still raised, and as he dropped Pazel saw the arrow buried deep in his ribs.
‘Oh Gods, no!’
Pazel and Neeps raced up the hill, deaf to the shouts of those behind them. It occurred to Pazel that he might be running towards his death. He could not stop. Druffle, the hapless fool, lay writhing on the ground. The arrow had passed through him. It was holding his chest off the ground like a stilt.
As the boys reached the man, a dark-robed figure burst from the underbrush. Pazel saw the flash of the falling sword and tried to dive away. Too slow. This was death.
Steel met steel with a clang.
Hercól. He had stopped the killing blow with Ildraquin, and now he leaped and dealt the man a lashing kick to the chest. The dark-robed attacker was no clumsy fighter, however; he absorbed the blow and spun around to strike again, expertly, his sword making an arc for Hercól’s chest.
Once more Hercól was faster. Ildraquin flew up, inside the arc of the other weapon. Hercól’s sword barely slowed as it severed the man’s arm. Pazel did not see the downward stroke that followed. But he heard it, and saw the man fall headless to the ground.
The hilltop was suddenly swarming with men. Druffle wheezed. Blood was foaming about the wound: a pierced lung, Ignus would have said. Pazel pressed his hands about the wound, and Druffle raised a weak hand as if to help him. The honey-coated hand. A few harmless bees still crawled on his flesh.
&nb
sp; Druffle lay still.
Pazel wondered at his own dry eyes. This man who had purchased him from slavers. Who had been a slave himself, to Arunis. Who had played the fiddle like an angel and swilled liquor like a fiend. Who had escaped all his tormentors, tasted sweetness one last time.
He looked up. No one was fighting. Sixty or more dark-robed fighters stood about them in a circle, swords pointing inwards. Men and women, with kohl dabbed on their cheekbones and tattoos on the backs of their necks. The Mzithrinis had been lying in wait.
The landing party was disarmed and made to kneel. Their hands were tied behind them, and their ankles bound fast. Six guards surrounded Neda, who was face down in the dirt, with a female soldier’s boot on her neck. The Mzithrinis retrieved the severed arm and head of the man Hercól had killed, washed them with oil and bore the corpse into the trees. Druffle’s body they left where it lay.
Pazel glanced around. Ramachni was nowhere to be seen.
Their captors still had not addressed them, but they stared with frank astonishment at Bolutu and Kirishgán. Pazel caught their whispers: ‘What in the black Pits of damnation are they? Demons in the flesh? Can they work curses with those eyes?’
‘Brothers, listen to me—’ Neda began in Mzithrini. Their captors barked at her to be silent, and one kicked her in the side.
An hour passed. They were given water and moved into the shade. Despite their shock at encountering a dlömu and a selk, their captors actually paid them little attention: they appeared somewhat preoccupied. About half had vanished into the trees atop the hill.
The sun sank low. The volcano moaned and rumbled. At last Pazel heard footsteps approaching, and a Mzithrini officer in a spotless black-and-red uniform stepped out from among the trees. His face unreadable, his movements precise. The guards snapped to attention: the man was evidently of some rank. An aide approached and handed him a ledger-book. The officer glanced from the book to the captives and back again, several times. Then he nodded and walked up to Pazel’s sister. The female soldier took her boot from Neda’s neck. The officer pointed at Hercól.
The Night of the Swarm (Chathrand Voyage 4) Page 76