The Night of the Swarm (Chathrand Voyage 4)

by Robert V. S. Redick

  ‘This man killed our brother in fair combat, and to save his friend. That is no dishonour, and he need fear no special punishment. Inform him.’

  Neda looked up at Hercól. ‘He says—’

  ‘I understand you, sir,’ said Hercól in Mzithrini.

  The officer whirled. ‘You as well! Do you all speak our tongue?’

  ‘No, brother,’ said Neda. ‘Only he and—’

  The officer spat in her face.

  ‘Call me brother, will you? A rebel sfvantskor gone over to the Arqualis!’

  Neda’s eyes blazed with fury. She tried to rise, but six sword-tips jabbed at her, and the female soldier pressed down again with her boot. Neda spoke through the mud and grass about her face. ‘I serve no Arquali, now or ever—’

  ‘Bitch in heat. You lie.’

  ‘I was sent to kill them,’ said Neda. ‘I failed. They took us prisoner.’

  ‘Which is why you laughed at the fool in the tree, and gazed at this swordsman with open lust. Keep silent, vow-breaker, or I will cut those ensigns from your flesh.’

  He meant her tattoos, Pazel realised with horror. Neda twisted beneath the soldier’s boot, glaring up at him fearlessly. But she held her tongue.

  Hercól’s eyes were no less deadly, though his voice was controlled. ‘You call her vow-breaker,’ he said, ‘and you are right: she is that. But it is a greater crime to raise youths in a windowless cell, and then demand vows pertaining to the world beyond. Those who break such vows may be many things, but they are never weak.’

  ‘Where did you learn Mzithrini?’ demanded the officer.

  ‘In my own windowless cell. From my old masters, and your arch-enemies, the Secret Fist. I too broke certain vows. I was expected to use my life to kill your people, to destroy your country from within.’

  The officer held his gaze for a long moment. Then he turned and studied their faces one by one. ‘What are these creatures?’ he said.

  ‘The black man is a dlömu. The other is a selk. They are no more your enemies than—’

  ‘Shut up.’ The officer pointed at Druffle’s corpse and addressed his men: ‘Bury this one. Mark the spot.’ Then, speaking once more to Hercól, he indicated Darabik.

  ‘That man is too old to fight. He was not guiding you, like the idiot in the tree. He carries himself like a general. Is he in command?’

  ‘We have no commander ashore,’ said Hercól.

  ‘Then you have no commander at all.’

  Hercól frowned.

  ‘You doubt me?’ said the officer. ‘Very well: untie their legs. Hold the swordsman and the traitor-girl like the deadly snakes they are. All of you, get up.’

  Legs freed but hands still tightly bound, the captives rose stiffly to their feet. The officer led them into the greenery, along a trail beneath the palms. Within, the evening shadows were already dark, but Pazel caught glimpses of many warriors: resting, eating, sharpening their swords. The captives filed past them in silence, nudged on by the blades of their guards.

  When they emerged from the oasis they stood on the hill’s far shoulder. The officer stood aside, and the captives gasped. The whole north side of the island spread below them, all the way to the coast of the Narrow Sea, and there—

  Aya Rin!

  Ships beyond counting, slaughter beyond words. At first Pazel could see no order in any of it. Large vessels, smaller ones, burning, blasting, listing, going down. Flashes of fire, wreaths of smoke.

  ‘Startling, isn’t it, how little one hears?’ said the officer. ‘Blame the west wind for that, and the volcano of course.’

  Pazel’s eyes began to sift what he saw. There was a huge force of heavy warships pressing south, towards Serpent’s Head and the westernmost isles of the archipelago. It was easily the largest flotilla Pazel had ever seen in the Northern world, and it was decimating a force about one-third its size. The latter ships were in disarray. Some were tacking west, into the wind; others had turned to engage their enemies head-on. A few were fleeing south between the islands, towards the Ruling Sea. The fight was not completely one-sided: vessels on both sides were burning, sinking. But Pazel could see no hope for the lesser fleet.

  ‘You are witnessing the end of an insurgency,’ said the officer. ‘The smaller force is trapped between the Nelluroq and Magad’s great flotilla. They have been dying all morning, and will go on dying through the night.’

  No one in the landing party could speak. Pazel could hear the cannon-blasts, now, just barely, over the rumbling of the volcano. He felt dizzy, defeated. On his left, Commodore Darabik’s face was ashen, and Hercól too looked appalled.

  ‘They fight bravely,’ said the Mzithrini officer. ‘They have stung Magad’s fleet, and will keep on doing so until the very end. Yes, they certainly have heart. Everything else, of course, is against them. Wind, numbers, ammunition, luck. Some have managed to reach the shore, after their boats were pulverised. They will die tomorrow. Magad has men enough to flush them out like rats, once the sea battle ends. And do you know who they are, those rats? Maisa’s rebels. The remains of her naval forces. They were planning to gather here, to regroup and try once more to topple the cannibal-king. But then you know all this. You’re Maisa’s agents too.’

  No one denied it. Commodore Darabik walked forward, dragging his feet. ‘We were betrayed,’ he said. ‘The Usurper knew about the gathering of our forces. He knew.’

  Hercól looked at the officer. ‘Magad’s land forces will find you as well, tomorrow,’ he said.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said the officer calmly. ‘We may be forced to surrender to the cannibals. For an hour or two.’

  He turned and pointed to the northwest. There was rain and haze in the distance. ‘You cannot see it, yet, even with a telescope—’

  ‘I can see it,’ said Kirishgán. ‘Another fleet, even larger than this one. They are fierce vessels, all painted white, and bristling with cannon, every one. There are many men aloft, but they have spread no canvas. The fleet is standing still.’

  Once more the officer was stunned. ‘Feather eyebrows and eagle eyes,’ he said. ‘Yes, our White Fleet is coming. Not to rescue Maisa’s rebels – that is no task of ours – but to destroy the Arquali navy, which is a force for evil in this world.’

  He gestured at the hill nearest to where they stood. It was barren, but at its peak lay an enormous mound of sticks and palm fronds. ‘Soaked in chemicals, special chemicals that burn long and bright. We will watch the battle, and when Maisa’s rebels have done us all the good they can do, we will light this beacon and summon our fleet. By then it will be past midnight, and Arqual will be wounded, tired, short of ammunition. Then it will be Arqual’s turn to be caught between the hammer of a stronger enemy and the anvil of the Ruling Sea.’

  ‘You did this,’ said Pazel. ‘You told Arqual where Maisa’s forces were gathering.’

  ‘Fool,’ said the officer. ‘We will not shed our blood for your rebellion, but why should we help Arqual to crush it? No, the Secret Fist learned of this gathering all by itself. After years of blundering along without Sandor Ott, it seems they are once more a functioning spy agency. You can’t lay the blame on us. Now then—’ he turned and raked them all with his eyes ‘—tell me how you came to be here, and who exactly you answer to in Maisa’s ranks.’

  There was a long silence. Darabik broke it at last. ‘I serve under Her Majesty’s royal husband, Prince Eberzam Isiq. This girl is his daughter, who was the Treaty Bride. They are all crew on the Great Ship, the Chathrand, which has just returned from across the Ruling Sea.’

  At first the Mzithrinis just stared at them, lost. Then as one they roared with laughter. Even their commander gave in. ‘Of course,’ he wheezed, drying his eyes. ‘Why didn’t I guess? And this explains why so many of you speak our language. And why a lapsed sfvantskor travels with you. And why the idiot was hooting and signalling from the tree.’ He waved at his men. ‘Go on, search the island. Maybe Empress Maisa herself is down there somewhere, wandering
among the rocks.’

  ‘I’m Thasha Isiq!’ shouted Thasha, enraged.

  This nearly finished them. ‘She got the name right, Captain!’ said one of the soldiers. ‘It was Thasha, the girl who died in Simja—

  ‘No, you ass, that was Paca, Paqui, something—’

  ‘Syrarys! Syrarys Lapadolma!’

  ‘How can you be so ignorant?’ bellowed Thasha. ‘Syrarys was my father’s consort, and she tried to kill us. Pacu Lapadolma was my maid-in-waiting, who took my place when I was nearly strangled. Have a look at my Gods-damned neck; you can still see the scars!’

  Silence.

  ‘Well, come on! It’s not that mucking complicated!’

  She had shouted in Arquali, of course. None of the Mzithrinis had understood her, but they had sobered nonetheless. ‘She sounds just like him,’ muttered one of the soldiers.

  The officer rubbed his chin. He ordered Thasha gagged, and then walked away into the trees. Pazel could not see what was happening within the oasis, but a few minutes later he heard a number of people approaching, and the officer’s voice.

  ‘Turn him. The old fool’s looking the wrong way.’

  Then a deeper voice boomed from the trees: ‘Oh Tree of Heaven! Oh sweet and merciful Rin!’

  Crashing, stomping, and then out he came: a bald, barrel-chested man, trailing leg irons, trying to run in them, holding out his arms to Thasha. His tattered uniform trailed leaves and vines. He didn’t notice. With a flick of his hand he tore Thasha’s gag away, then knelt and embraced her. Thasha, hands still bound, laid her cheek atop his head and wept.

  ‘Prahba.’

  ‘My darling girl, my beauty—’

  Eberzam Isiq. Pazel had thought of him many times since the Red Storm. The admiral had looked old and unsteady since Pazel’s first glimpse of him on the quay in Etherhorde. But now if anything he looked six years younger, not older. His flesh had colour; his limbs looked strong and hale.

  He’s free of the deathsmoke, Pazel realised. No one’s poisoning him any more.

  ‘Thasha, Thasha,’ said Isiq. ‘I let them hurt you, take you from me, I’ll never ask you to forgive—’

  Thasha shh’d him through her tears. Pazel wished he could blow everyone away from the spot, give them this moment, let them be alone together for a time. Isiq rose to his feet and pressed her cheek against his breast. Only then did he take in the rest of them.

  ‘Stanapeth! Undrabust! Pazel Pathkendle! Bless you, Darabik, you found them!’

  ‘They found me, Your Highness,’ said the commodore.

  The Mzithrinis were wonder-struck. ‘You really are Thasha Isiq,’ said the officer. ‘Is the rest of your mad story true?’

  Isiq was looking straight at Pazel. Uncertainly, he extended a hand. Pazel stepped forward and gripped it, not a handshake but a tight, fierce clasp.

  ‘You gave me your promise,’ said the admiral. ‘In Simja, on the road from the shrine. I asked you to protect her—’

  ‘I remember,’ said Pazel.

  ‘I meant her body. I thought it was a dead girl you were carrying away.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You’ve stayed with her. You all have. You’ve kept my angel safe.’

  ‘Oh, Prahba,’ said Thasha, laughing through her tears.

  ‘We’ve helped each other, sir,’ said Pazel, ‘and Thasha’s done more than anyone.’

  ‘We feared for your life as well, Admiral,’ said Hercól. ‘For a time, Neda and Pazel’s dreams brought us glimpses of you, or at least of their mother’s thoughts of you.’

  ‘Many thoughts,’ said Neda, in her broken Arquali. ‘Always good thoughts, loving.’

  Isiq looked at her, and seemed astonished both by her words and by the fact of her existence. ‘If Rin takes me today, I will die a happy man,’ he said.

  Then the distant explosions reached his ears. For the first time he raised his eyes to the battle, and Pazel watched horror change the admiral’s face. His lips trembled. He shook his head, imperious, helpless: this thing must not be.

  ‘Now he knows why I kept him away in the palms,’ said the officer, not without sympathy.

  Isiq looked at the officer, then at Pazel. ‘He must stop this. Tell him, Pathkendle. If Maisa’s navy is destroyed she will never recover, never take the throne of Arqual. Emperor Magad will be stronger than ever, and so will his will to destroy the Mzithrin. Tell him I’m begging, begging him to signal his fleet.’

  Pazel took a deep breath, and repeated the admiral’s words in Mzithrini. The officer shook his head. ‘I have lived to see things beyond the visions of the seers,’ he said. ‘Admiral Isiq himself, begging the White Fleet to destroy the Arquali navy. Tell him not to worry: destroy it we will. But as for his rebellion: too late, too late. Even if I lit that beacon now, there would be little left of Maisa’s forces by the time they arrived.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have to arrive,’ said Pazel. ‘Just bring your fleet close enough for Magad’s forces to notice. They’ll have to break off fighting the rebels and sail north to face you. Or turn and run.’

  The officer smiled. ‘Ah, but we don’t want that, do we? You are forgetting the hammer and the anvil. Magad’s forces have your rebels where they want them: we will engage Magad in the same place.’

  ‘There is more at stake here than one victory at sea!’ said Hercól. ‘If Empress Maisa fails, so too does the best chance for peace between the Empires. Maisa has sworn to end the conflict, to make peace once and for all.’

  ‘The famous Arquali hunger for peace,’ said the officer. ‘Perhaps she will suggest another treaty-signing on Simja. Enough! You will tell the rest of your story to my lieutenant. Your presence here changes very little – although I grant you have made this day … stranger.’

  ‘Things are even stranger than you suppose,’ said Ramachni.

  The soldiers whirled; blades whistled from sheaths. The mage was seated on a rock some ten feet away. The red rays of sunset glowed in his eyes. ‘Hold your fire,’ he said. ‘I make a much better friend than foe.’

  ‘A woken animal,’ said the officer, ‘what next? Come down from there, little circus-freak, before we put a shaft through your heart.’

  Ramachni stood up slowly, eyes locked on the commander. ‘If you think that you will slaughter me as you did our harmless companion, you are mistaken,’ he said.

  Nothing obvious had changed, but somehow Ramachni seemed larger, and in his stillness there was something of a threat. The Mzithrinis glanced nervously at their commander. He too looked shaken, but he stood his ground.

  ‘If you’re not a woken animal, what in the Black Pits are you?’

  ‘An ally, if you will permit it,’ said Ramachni. ‘Our tale is true, Commander, and the Chathrand has returned. You must have heard of the conspiracy that sent her forth. But you cannot possibly grasp the doom that calls her back. The Swarm of Night has been unleashed on Alifros. To defeat it we must make a landing on Gurishal, at a place marked by a sea-rock called the Arrowhead.’

  The officer shook his head in disbelief. ‘That is a declaration of lunacy.’

  ‘I am quite the sanest person you are likely to meet,’ said Ramachni.

  ‘You’re not a person at all,’ said the officer, ‘and Gurishal is sovereign territory of the Pentarchy, despite its occupation by the Shaggat heretics. We do not let enemies parade through our waters.’

  ‘You could help us,’ said Pazel.

  ‘Certainly,’ said the officer, ‘if I were a traitor, and in want of a swift execution.’

  ‘They could help us, you know,’ said Pazel, glancing at Ramachni. ‘They must have a vessel hidden somewhere. They could escort the Chathrand.’

  The soldiers laughed again, and even the officer smiled as he turned away. ‘No more,’ he said. ‘I have a battle to observe.’

  ‘The carnage below means nothing,’ said Ramachni.

  The officer glanced at him again. ‘Nothing, eh? You jabbering freak. By dawn tomorrow, the balance of
power in this world will have shifted for ever.’

  ‘Yes, I fear so,’ said Ramachni.

  His unblinking eyes remained fixed on the Mzithrini commander. On the next hill, a spark leaped to sudden life, and with a whoosh the oil-soaked mound of brush went up in flames.

  The officer’s response was commendable, Pazel had to admit. He did not kill anyone. Indeed he ordered no reprisals, although it was clear that his prisoners were somehow to blame. His only command was to attack the beacon-fire, to smother it, drown it, snuff it out. The task proved impossible, however. The ‘special chemicals’ were everything the man had claimed. The fire roared like a blast furnace; the soldiers could do nothing but watch. From out at sea it might have appeared that a new and tiny volcano had erupted in this quiet end of Serpent’s Head.

  Kirishgán looked into the distance. ‘The White Fleet is setting sail,’ he said. ‘Already the vanguard is heading this way.’

  ‘They were prepared,’ muttered the officer, snapping open his telescope. As he studied the horizon, he ordered his men to break camp. ‘The Arqualis will see the fire too, and mark the spot. No sense waiting for them to come ashore and investigate. We’ll sleep tonight at Yellow Cliff.’ He turned to Ramachni. ‘Well, mage, you’ve proved you can light a match at fifty paces. Any other tricks at your disposal?’

  Ramachni just showed his teeth.

  ‘Do you intend to fight eighty soldiers of the Pentarchy? For that is the only way we will give your prisoners up.’

  ‘I will not hold you to that boast,’ said Ramachni, ‘but I will not fight you either – yet.’

  The officer shrugged, then gestured at the prisoners. ‘Get some food in their mouths, unless you want to carry these lunatics.’