Corsair

by Chris Bunch

  All that night, the cannonading kept on. At the second glass of the first watch, soldiers boarded boats, and, with a sorcerous fog covering them, closed on the city’s western wall.

  But the Linyati magicians saw through the casting, sent a counterspell, and, just at false dawn, the fog lifted suddenly and the Slavers’ small guns opened up, as soldiers were leaping into the low surf and charging the wall.

  Grapeshot swept the beach, and the soldiers flattened, pinned behind low dunes.

  The Catspaw, a small sloop, took it on herself to close on the city, and, with very accurate shooting from her bow guns, smash at the city gates.

  Gareth sent flags up to tell the Catspaw to pull back, she was within range of the Linyati guns, but her captain ignored the signals, turned broadside and opened fire.

  Balls smashed into the heavy timber, and Gareth could see it begin to sag.

  At that moment, flame shot high on the Catspaw, and an instant later its magazine caught and the ship was no more than a ball of dark smoke and fire, timbers cascading through the air.

  Wishing he was a man of profanity, Gareth sent up flags ordering two of the larger pirate ships to follow his command, not knowing if they were obeyed as he ordered the Steadfast to close on the bits of smoking ruin that had been the Catspaw.

  “When you’re in range,” he called to Tehidy, in the bows with the two culverins, “do me more damage.”

  “Aye,” came the shout back, then cannon balls splashed into the clear water just short of the Steadfast. Tehidy’s cannon boomed, and Gareth could see little of Noorat’s walls, which made him grateful, not particularly wanting to see the inevitable doom.

  Other, bigger guns slammed to his left and right, and Gareth saw the two ships he’d ordered in firing away.

  He heard a shout from the foredeck: “Th’ gates’re down!”

  Gareth paid no mind, but ordered the Steadfast about, and away from harm’s way. Chainshot — at least that was what he guessed it was — whirred overhead, and a yard snapped, crashed down, and Gareth heard someone scream.

  Then his ship was out of danger, the other two backwatering as well, almost grounding.

  The soldiers ashore were up, running, pouring through the gate, and Noorat’s defenses were breached.

  “Stand by to put a landing party ashore,” Gareth called. “Nomios, take the deck.”

  He ran down the ladder to the main deck where boats were being hoisted out, and Cosyra was ahead of him, clambering over the rail, teeth bared in a hard grin.

  • • •

  Noorat was very alien. The buildings, most of them two- or three-storied, had domed roofs. What Gareth called houses were generally clustered around two or three larger buildings. Stores? Community halls? He didn’t know.

  The streets were wide, and curved, so there was never a clear view for long.

  Here and there were odd obelisks, commemorating who knew what.

  Noorat was not only alien, but almost deserted.

  Gareth wondered why — had the city been built with the expectation of colonists who never materialized? Was this where the Slavers based their raiding expeditions, and the Linyati were off at sea? Again, no answers came.

  The pirates moved systematically through the city, clearing as they went. Mostly the buildings were empty, but sometimes a knot of Linyati would explode out into battle.

  They asked, and gave, no mercy.

  There were others in the city. Slaves. These were chained in low barracks, and when the doors were broken in, cowered, expecting death at first, then exploded into hysterical joy when their chains were struck off and they were allowed to arm themselves.

  Instantly, they became the most savage hunters of their former masters.

  Most were men from Kashi, although there were a few bearded white men, speaking no known language. Gareth tried to talk to two of them, got nowhere, and didn’t have time to find Labala and have a language spell cast. He could find out where they were from later.

  So far, no one reported encountering a Linyati woman or child, and Gareth was deeply grateful.

  • • •

  Gareth entered the building cautiously, sword in one hand, pistol in the other.

  “Naught to worry about,” the pirate with him said.

  “There was but one of ‘em, and he’s down in his blood right there.”

  Gareth nodded absently, looking around the house, ignoring the sprawled corpse, trying to understand his enemy.

  There was a table and four chairs, simply designed, but with elaborate gold and silver inlays. More gold relics hung on the walls, but the room didn’t look as if it were lived in. The next room had a dresser and cot, in the same style as the other furniture. The third was tiny, and had a hole in the floor, and washing buckets on a bench. Gareth leaned over the hole, heard rushing water below.

  He made a note they’d have to find the entrance to the sewers and make sure the Slavers — or their masters, the Runners — weren’t using them as a hiding place.

  The last room was a kitchen, with a cupboard of various grains and a simple charcoal stove. Half a dozen pots hung on wall pegs.

  That was all. It almost could have been the cell of a hermit or priest withdrawing from the world.

  Gareth investigated other houses, found them equally bare.

  Had the Linyati no pleasures? Abroad, in his trading days, he’d seen them in taverns, entering bordellos, although he had no idea what they did, had never been curious enough to bribe a whore and ask.

  Again, the Linyati were a puzzlement.

  • • •

  A pirate broke into a warehouse expecting to find treasure, found something more valuable — thirty wheeled cannon, very light, very portable, moyen weighing no more than four hundredweight.

  Gareth sent for gunners, and had the enemy guns dispatched to the companies in the city, with powder, solid, and grapeshot.

  Now, when a houseful of Slavers was found, the pirates could stand off at street’s end and smash it with a dozen balls, forcing the Linyati out into a charge, to be mown down by grapeshot.

  • • •

  The sun was overhead, and Gareth wondered where the day had gone. Seconds later, enormous thirst took him, and he was delighted to come upon a pair of mercenaries rolling a keg out of a building into the street. They turned it on end and smashed the wood in with their musket butts.

  “Have a go,” one said.

  “Nay,” the other said. “I’ll wait for you. You’re the elder.”

  “Here,” Gareth said, pushing one aside and dipping a finger into the liquid. He tasted, made a face.

  “Poison, ‘tis,” one soldier gasped. “As I feart.”

  “No,” Gareth said. “It’s beer. Good beer, I’d guess, but I’m not a drinker.”

  The soldier whooped and buried his face in the barrel.

  Gareth, almost preferring thirst, drank two cupped handsfuls, could stomach no more, and went looking for water.

  He was feeling his head start to swim when he came on a square with a bubbling artesian well and drank himself silly and sober before he went on.

  • • •

  All of the sailors were silent, in awe, as if they were in the cathedral of a great god.

  Perhaps, pirates loving what they do, they were.

  The building was filled with gold. Ingots were stacked, ceiling high, to one side. On the other were still unmelted statues, wall decorations, even small pieces of furniture, many with inset jewels.

  But these were of lesser matter:

  The room was dominated by a gigantic golden wheel, half again as tall as a man, worked with abstract designs, with strange creatures here and there.

  The wheel was almost a forearm thick, and Gareth wondered what it was meant for, what unknown city it had been looted from, even how it had been transported to Noorat.

  He saw Dafflemere smiling lovingly at the wheel.

  “Rich, rich, rich,” he said quietly. “Now I can buy back th
e lands I lost, and my title … and still have enough to lose in every gambling hell Saros offers, and be mad, without a soul, in highest fashion.”

  • • •

  No one had reported seeing a Runner, and Gareth was wondering if there were none of the monsters in Noorat, which would make no sense — or, rather, as little sense as everything else about the Slavers did.

  Then a messenger came, calling for Gareth to follow him.

  He heard the high keening of a Runner before he came into the tiny square, now an abattoir. Half a dozen Linyati lay sprawled in their blood outside a house. In front of them were twenty dead soldiers and three or four sailors, almost as if they’d been cut down in formation.

  At their head lay a soldier with a plumed hat, Gareth guessed one of their officers.

  Cosyra and ten pirates were crouched behind a low wall.

  “Bastard came out of nowhere, ambushed them,” she said, and shivered. “Gods, Gareth, you told me they were awful … but not that awful. He was butchering the last of those men when we came up.

  “We had time for a couple of shots, no more, and he fled back into that house. I’m not even sure we wounded him.”

  Gareth turned to the messenger.

  “Go back, and get two of the small guns up here.”

  “Aye, sir,” and the man darted off.

  “We’ll blow his nest down around his ears,” Gareth said. “If he’s got ears.”

  But there wasn’t time. Gareth heard the shrilling get louder, louder still, heard Cosyra shout for the sailors to get on line and fire on her command.

  The Runner bounded down an open staircase into the open. He came across the square in leaping bounds, a sword in each claw.

  “Fire!” Cosyra shouted, and the muskets went off in a ragged volley.

  The Runner fell hard, rolled, was back on his feet, and Cosyra, shouting, ran toward him, sword held like a lance.

  Gareth went after her, his ears a roar of blood fever and fear.

  The Runner swung one of his blades at Cosyra, and she ducked, thrust once, jumped aside as his other sword lashed. Again she lunged, this time taking the monstrous lizard below his fanged jaws.

  The shrilling became a scream, and the Runner staggered, jaws wide open, and Gareth shot the creature in the mouth.

  The Runner went down, and Gareth thrust his sword into the demon, if that was what it was, where a heart should be, saw a dark, almost black, ichor welling.

  Cosyra was panting, and sagged against him.

  “Always strike what you’re most afraid of,” she managed. “My mother told me that.”

  “And what am I supposed to do?” Gareth said. “Stand and cheer?”

  “Hells no,” Cosyra said. “You’re a bold vagabond. Protect me from this stupid idea of playing hero.”

  “I promise.” Gareth kissed her stained, sweating forehead.

  Cosyra pulled away from him.

  “You,” she said, pointing to a sailor, and authority was strong in her voice. “Go find me a magician. On the double.”

  The pirate gaped twice, then nodded and ran off.

  Moments later, Labala ran into the square.

  “Ah,” he said, without surprise. “You’ve got one of ‘em. There’s been two more winkled out. Nasty sorts they are, who take a deal of killing.”

  “I want a spell,” Cosyra said shortly. “Something that’ll give warning on these monsters, so we don’t get ambushed again.”

  “Mmmmh,” Labala said. “Since we have a body to play with, should be simple ‘nough.”

  He opened a bag he carried at his waist, took out small vials.

  “Now, if someone can find me some bits of wood … ah, the handle of that halberd will do fine, especially since it’s a war tool.

  “You there. You look strong enough. Break that wood up into five or six lengths.”

  The sailor grunted, obeyed.

  Labala bent over the Runner’s corpse, dabbed a finger in the beast’s gore. He drew a six-pointed star on the cobbles, put a daub of blood inside each point.

  He opened two of the vials, sprinkled dried herbs in the center of the star. The six pieces of wood were dipped in the Runner’s ichor, laid in the star’s center. Then he chanted, three times:

  “Scent, ye hounds

  Track what lives still

  Death seeks life

  Death seeks life

  Your nose what was before

  Seek

  Find

  There are no shadows

  There is no night

  There are no hides

  Seek

  Find.”

  The sticks stirred, coming to life. Labala gave them to Cosyra, who took them with a bit of reluctance.

  “Here are your hunting dogs,” he said. “They’ll do what you task them to.”

  • • •

  The mercenary captain found Gareth an hour or so later. He was pale, looked shocked.

  “Sir,” he said, trying, without success, to keep a tremor from his voice. “We tracked some of those damned lizards to a lair with one of those magic sticks Lady Cosyra gave us. They attacked, and we killed them, but they fought with such a damnable frenzy we thought they were protecting something important.”

  He swallowed hard. “I guess it is. I didn’t know what to do, and one of your ship captains said you’d best see for yourself.”

  “What is it?” Gareth asked.

  The soldier shook his head. “I’m not sure … or, better, I don’t want to be sure.”

  Gareth followed him down winding streets to a large building with big doors gaping. In front of it sprawled half a dozen Runners, and three times that many soldiers. The demons had fought hard.

  Gareth started inside, and the soldier hung back.

  The building was one great room. In its center was obscene horror.

  It was pale yellow, the color of pus, a wide blob that resembled a pudding left in the sun, ten yards across. It moved, waves pulsing across its surface. Here and there, things were slowly emerging from its skin.

  Gareth smelled an unpleasant odor, like rotting flesh.

  He swallowed hard, walked closer. The things were half-formed adult Linyati, covered with a glistening slime. Their eyes were open, but blank, and their limbs moved spasmodically.

  There were half a dozen complete Slavers lying on the floor around the hulk, moving senselessly from time to time, alive, but empty-eyed, as if waiting for souls.

  Gareth felt bile rise, turned away.

  Now he knew why no one had seen Linyati women or children.

  He went outside, trying to keep his face under control.

  “Sir,” the soldier asked. “What is it?”

  “A Linyati breeder,” he said, unable to use the word mother. “Find pitch, or anything that burns. Fire the monster, and make sure none of those things lying around it are still alive.

  “If you find more … kill them too.”

  “Sir.”

  • • •

  They found three more of the Linyati “mothers,” burned them; killed fifteen Runners, a dozen Linyati magicians, and over a hundred Slavers.

  Then the city was quiet, except for the pain of the wounded, the yip of the sea dogs as they looted, and the crackle of flames.

  Noorat was theirs.

  Now all the pirates had to do was wait for the treasure fleet.

  Nineteen

  Gareth paced back and forth, envying the softly snoring Cosyra in the bed nearby. He had a bad case of what his mother had called the frets, unable to sleep.

  He went to the window, looked out at the tropic night. The pair of guards below, outside the building he’d commandeered, paced their rounds in a somewhat military manner, almost as if they were soldiers instead of discipline-be-damned pirates.

  Gareth’s first fret was that the Linyati ships were at least two weeks late, by his reckoning from the previous year.

  Beyond the city, gentle, phosphorescent waves touched the beach. The p
irates’ ships were anchored around the bay, most with no more than a skeleton crew aboard.

  In the distance, atop the promontories, the lights of the forts winked. Those were fully manned and would give the signal when the Slavers hove into view, more than enough time for the pirates to be roused and man their ships.

  One of the forts blinked a signal, echoed a moment later by the second. Purely routine.

  Fret two was that Labala had come to him three days ago and said he’d begun dreaming of sharks once more.

  He’d set Dafflemere and Labala trying to discover if enemies were close, or if someone was casting a spell against the expedition, but they found nothing.

  Dafflemere had returned to his favorite pastime — sitting with a glass of watered Axkiller, staring at the high-piled riches of the Linyati, and drawing, endlessly, on a map of Saros’s north, just what estates he planned to purchase when they returned.

  Labala’s self-chosen post was at the infirmary.

  That was fret number three.

  Labala and Cosyra, who’d become his tutor in reading, had discovered why Noorat was so thinly populated. Just beyond the city were row after row of graves, first uncovered by the burial squads dragging dead Linyati and Runners to a common grave. The Slavers gave no more ceremony to their dead than the pirates, their graves being no more than long ditches.

  Gareth had been about to disinter some of them, trying to decide what poor sinners would be put on that detail, but Dafflemere said magic would do a better, less smelly job of finding the cause of the deaths.

  By the time his incantations worked, Gareth already knew what had killed the Slavers, for it was sweeping his own ranks:

  Fever. Half a dozen men reported swimmy heads, vomiting, and bloody discharges. Three of them died, and a dozen more were down.

  The sickness swept through the pirates’ ranks, killing thirty. Dafflemere said the flux was the same that had killed the evidently more susceptible Linyati.

  Then it was gone. For the moment. Gareth dreaded the thought that it might return just as the treasure ships arrived.

  Gareth growled at himself. Brooding, even though this always seemed to come to him before action, was no way to make himself sleepy.

  He lay back down and thought in another direction, of the vast wealth that was — he hoped — pushing through the green waters toward Noorat.