Hardway

by David Pilling

  Tamburlin was eyeing him, his jaw clenched, blue-veined hands trembling as they rested on the desk. Dusek could sense the tension in him.

  He shrugged. If Tamburlin wished to make use of drugs to prop up his failing powers, it was no business of his. Murka was notorious for eventually taking as much as it gave. At some point the old man would pay the toll. Hopefully by then the crisis would have passed.

  “While the enemy fleets are engaged,” said Dusek, forcing himself to speak slowly and deliberately, “we have an opportunity to hurt them. Vazul and the Grey Queen have their hands around each other’s necks. They won’t expect us to creep up and stab them in the backside.”

  He smirked, pleased with the imagery. “Give me command of the fleet,” he went on, “and I will sail out, take a few of Vazul’s ships and tow them back into harbour. Their loss may cause Vazul to lose the battle, in which case we lose one of our enemies. Or it may goad him into doing something even more foolish.”

  Dusek tapped the side of his head. “I know the Dragon, my lord. I knew his father. They are a proud and fierce clan, at the mercy of their passions. Let me humiliate Vazul, and he will react like a wounded animal.”

  Tamburlin settled further back into his chair and folded his hands over his lean belly. His eyes flickered. For a moment Dusek thought the murka had taken him, but when he spoke again his voice was clear and purposeful.

  “Hardway’s strength used to lie in her fleet,” he said. “We are a small island, surrounded by foes. A strong fleet was our only defence. Our ships swept the Girdle Sea from end to end, extracting tribute from the coastal kingdoms and slaughtering any pirates who dared to venture into our waters.

  “Time is our chief enemy, General. How it has worn away at our strength. For the past century and more Hardway has been governed by a pack of fools, criminals and incompetents, who looked to feather their own nests at the city’s expense. I count myself among them.”

  Dusek listened with mounting impatience. He knew murka tended to make its users overly talkative. He also knew plenty of history. Hardway had once boasted a fleet of over five hundred ships. Its seamen were reckoned the best in the whole of The World Apparent, save perhaps for the corsairs of distant Temeria.

  “Most of our great warships were sold off or broken up,” Tamburlin said sadly, his eyes flickering again. “I warned the other City Fathers that this day would come, and we would need to rebuild our fleet again in readiness for it. They refused to listen. What need of warships lying idle in dry dock, they said, when we could have merchant vessels, fishing boats and whalers out on the high seas, making money—money! Profits! It is all they think of.”

  He hawked deep in his throat, a vile noise, and spat a gobbet of yellowish phlegm into the wicker basket at the foot of his desk.

  “To the hells with them all. Shopkeepers. Little men, General. I have allowed little men, with their narrow minds and grasping hands, to bring about our ruin.”

  While Tamburlin rambled on, Dusek took a quill from a jar on his desk, then hunted through a heap of parchment for a clean sheet. Having found one, he dipped the quill into the ink-pot and pressed it into Tamburlin’s right hand.

  “Write what I tell you,” he ordered in his most forbidding parade-ground manner, slamming the sheet down in front of the old man. “‘By my order, and the authority invested in me as Chief of the City Fathers of Hardway, the bearer has supreme control over all our armed forces by sea and land.’”

  Dusek took a deep breath as Tamburlin’s fingers slowly closed around the quill. Such a commission, signed and sealed by the Chief Father’s own hand, would give him command of Hardway’s navy as well as her garrison.

  It is a very short step from here, he thought, to being ruler of Hardway in all but name. O Dragon, you sent me to conquer this city, and so I have! General Dusek always triumphs!

  He possessed too much self-knowledge not to smile. His triumph, if it could be called that, was somewhat delayed.

  The murka had now tightened its grip on Tamburlin. With no further protest he scratched out the words Dusek had dictated, ending with a rather shaky signature.

  “Now the seal,” said Dusek.

  Moving automatically, Tamburlin pulled open a drawer, withdrew a lump of red wax and a metal box, and placed them on the desk. He flipped open the lid of the box, and withdrew his seal of office, stamped with the heraldic crest of Hardway, an armoured warrior standing in the middle of a boat, on the underside.

  Dusek picked up the wax and held it over one of the candles set in the iron candelabra standing on a corner of the desk. When the wax was warm, he placed it in front of Tamburlin, who obediently pressed his seal into it.

  “The fleet,” mumbled Tamburlin. “Hardway’s security has always lain...with her fleet...”

  “It still does,” said Dusek. Seeing the old man’s strength start to fail, he seized Tamburlin’s wrist and helped him press the seal down into the warm wax. Swiftly folding the sheet of parchment in two, he then helped Tamburlin to drip more wax onto the fold and press the seal onto it.

  That done, Dusek snatched up his precious commission. Finally, he had what he wanted. The defence of Hardway was now entirely his responsibility.

  He flourished the scrap of parchment in the air and blew on it until the wax had cooled. Meanwhile Tamburlin’s eyes closed again. His white head slumped forward and rested among the heap of scattered parchment.

  Leaving him to sleep off the effects of murka, Dusek soft-footed out of the room and closed the door behind him.

  16.

  The Grey Queen’s flagship, the Behemoth, was well-named. Over three times the size of her next largest warship, the monstrous vessel boasted a triple deck of oars, ten masts, and eight castellated fighting platforms, bristling with ballistae and onagers. The thousand-strong crew included three hundred black-armoured marines, who formed the Queen’s personal guard on the rare occasions she was aboard.

  The prow of the Behemoth was decorated with a huge three-headed statue of the greatest of the Grey Queens, the seventh in the line, who had wielded enough power to level continents. It was three-headed to represent the three faces she had presented to the world: Terror, Cruelty and Greed.

  As much a floating palace as a warship, the stern was dominated by a gigantic square tower with an oval turret at each corner. The lowest floor of the tower contained the admiral’s quarters, while the second and third were for the exclusive use of the Grey Queen and her servants.

  The young queen sat inside the smallest chamber on the third floor, her eyes fixed on a silver bowl of seawater resting in her lap. Her maids, dressed like her in dark grey robes, sat cross-legged in a circle around her folding iron stool. They also wore silver masks over their faces, though in their case it was to hide the scars: any servant who volunteered to enter the Grey Queen’s private household did so in the knowledge they would be disfigured for life with branding irons. The marks were supposed to act as a permanent reminder of their sacred duty, and a warning of the worse punishments that would follow if they ever broke their vows of loyalty.

  To anyone else the water was just water, dull and transparent. To the Queen, who possessed second sight, it showed her images of the sea-battle. When she moved her hand over the bowl, the angle of vision shifted, so she could see every part of the fight.

  Her ships were locked in combat with those of the Dragon, who had proved every bit as treacherous as his reputation. It was difficult to tell who was winning. The dragonships, which helpfully bore the image of a flying serpent woven into their white sails, were like a swarm, circling and closing in on her larger, slower-moving black vessels.

  There were any number of savage boarding actions, the tiny figures of men hacking and chopping at each other with grappling irons, pikes, hatchets, swords and halberds, while their ships bombarded each other at close range. Unquenchable fires raged, illuminating the fighting men as they pitilessly slaughtered each other. One of the black galleons was listing heavily
, foaming green water pouring over her hull, most of her crew leaping like frightened rats over the side. The Grey Queen’s heart bled for the few brave souls that remained, determined to rescue their ship or go down with her.

  She could hear as well as see the battle. It was happening barely half a mile away, though none of the dragonships had yet dared to attack the Behemoth. Her chief admiral and his officers had cautioned against taking the flagship into danger unless absolutely necessary.

  The Queen sighed. “My advisors warned me Vazul would play us false,” she said aloud. “I thought he would be more subtle. Why attack us now, before Hardway is even won? The people of the island must be laughing at us.”

  Her maids didn’t respond. They were forbidden to speak in the royal presence unless directly spoken to.

  “My poor children,” said the Queen. “What slavish lives you lead. In time, I promise I shall free you all, and find good husbands for you.”

  Husbands who don’t mind a few scars, she added silently. Her maids had all been great beauties before suffering the ritual agonies of mutilation. Spoiling their beauty, and then hiding what remained behind silver masks, was another of the many senseless traditions observed by the Grey Queen’s court.

  She looked into the water again. It grieved and angered the young monarch to see her sailors dying, even though they were holding their own against the dragonships. She glimpsed one of the latter, burning from stern to prow, her crew dead or struggling in the icy waters, drift aimlessly away from the battle. Her foremast was gone, shot away by a stone from a catapult, but the mainmast was still intact. Its sail billowed with wind, propelling the doomed ship away to the north-west, where she could sink in peace.

  “There will be a reckoning for this needless slaughter,” the Queen muttered. “I will have Vazul on his knees before me, begging forgiveness. The blood-price I extract from him shall bankrupt his realm for years to come.”

  It was tempting to muster all her powers, to pour her whole being into summoning lightning from the skies, to turn the Dragon’s ships into so much floating ash.

  She restrained herself. The queen whose three-headed effigy adorned the prow of the Behemoth would not have hesitated to do so, but the effort would probably kill her descendent.

  How we are diminished from former days. Our powers slowly fade away as the generations pass, leaving nothing but the empty shell of ceremony and time-honoured ritual.

  One of the screens to her chamber was shifted aside to admit Rydek, the admiral of the fleet. He was a stocky, bow-legged man in his fifties, bald and neatly bearded, wearing a coat of shimmering grey scales under his heavy black storm-coat.

  “Majesty,” he said with a bow, dripping rainwater all over the thickly carpeted floor, “I thought I should let you know how the battle progressed.”

  “I know it already,” she replied, tapping the bowl on her lap. “Give me your version of events.”

  Many of her subjects, she knew, were uncomfortable with her witch-like powers. Rydek was no exception. “Our fleet has suffered losses, Majesty,” he said, glancing nervously at the bowl. “So have the dragonships. We should be able to drive them off. However...”

  The Queen looked up and met his pale blue eyes. “However?” she echoed sharply.

  Rydek, who had spent a lifetime facing down men, storms and sea-monsters, and feared no other living creature save the young woman sat before him, wrung his scarred, powerful hands.

  “Majesty, look deeper into your bowl,” he said. “You will see another fleet sailing from Hardway. They have sent their ships out against us.”

  The Queen passed her hand over the water. Once again the battle appeared before her, floating images of tiny warships, battering each other from afar or embroiled in vicious boarding actions.

  She turned her gaze north-east, towards the island of Hardway, a grey lump of rock rising out of the sea like the back of a monstrous whale.

  A cluster of white sails streamed from the harbour. The Queen’s heart lurched. Her agents in Hardway had informed her that the city’s fleet was a shadow of its former might, a mere handful of galleys and fishing boats. Had the cunning City Fathers succeeded in hiding their true strength from prying enemy eyes, waiting to unleash it when the time was ripe?

  Her panic quickly passed when she counted the sails. “Twenty-one,” she said. “Is that all? Even the largest of them is barely half the size of one of our galleons. What do they hope to achieve with such a pathetic little navy?”

  Rydek shrugged his heavy shoulders. “I don’t know, Majesty. It looks like suicide. Most of our vessels are already engaged. Shall I order the Behemoth into action against the Hardway ships? We could easily defeat them on our own.”

  The Queen lifted her pale hand. “Wait,” she murmured, staring harder at the water. “They have changed course.”

  As she watched, the leading Hardway war-galley—one of only three—had turned her rudder south-west. The wind had changed, and her captain was skilful enough to make the best use of it, crowding all possible sail until she flew through the sea with deceptive speed, the rest of Hardway’s little navy trailing behind her.

  She was heading straight for the Stormcrow, Vazul’s flagship. The Grey Queen looked closer, homing in on the galley until she could make out her crew, spearmen and archers clustered on the foredeck.

  One man caught her eye. He stood near the prow, red woollen cloak flying about his narrow shoulders. With one hand he gripped the timbers. The other held an iron-tipped stick, balancing him against the violent roll and pitch of the deck.

  She sensed something dangerous about this man. The top half of his head was entirely enclosed by a steel helmet with long cheek-pieces and a broad rim protecting the neck. Long white hair flowed under the rim, testifying to his age.

  The Queen gasped. There were no eye-holes bored into the helmet. It was a blank metal visor, and should have rendered its owner completely blind. Instead he seemed to know exactly where he was, twisting his head to bark orders at the crew, then back again to stare directly at the Stormcrow.

  “Sorcery,” she muttered. As one born sensitive to it, she could almost taste the power in the air. Was the blind man a sorcerer? He had to be.

  The Queen was trained from birth to avoid outward displays of emotion. Her subjects expected her to project an aura of almost divine perfection, unmoved by the whims of fate.

  A surge of anger coursed through her now, overcoming much of her iron self-restraint. She dashed her fist into the water, shattering the vision.

  Sorcery! How had her agents failed to detect it in Hardway? What other secret weapons did they hold in store?

  “I will go on deck,” she announced, “and watch the battle with my own eyes. I have need of some air.”

  There was a rustling of grey silk as her maids rose in unison. “Majesty,” Rydek said anxiously, twisting his fingers together, “I would advise against it. The fighting is not over by any means. You are safe in here.”

  She snorted in contempt. “I am the Grey Queen, Admiral, the leader of my people. Our men are fighting and dying on my behalf. I can at least share some of their danger.”

  “Give the order to raise anchor,” she added as two of her maids hurried to fetch her storm-cloak, “and steer the Behemoth towards the Stormcrow. It is time for a reckoning with the Dragon.”

  17.

  The forest was gloomy. Little of the sun's light reached the dank undergrowth, the air was damp and the odour of decay was pungent. Layers of rotting leaves and moss underfoot made the ground soft and spongy. Before they entered the forest Brother Envy had provided Maximilian with a sword, which now hung at his hip, and the undergrowth constantly snagged and tangled with it, making the going even harder. His legs ached.

  The scenery never seemed to change. Dwarfed by vast trees whose trunks rose out of sight into the canopy far above, he felt as though he crept past sleeping giants. It was eerily quiet, and the dim light seemed to play tricks on his eyes. Every
so often he would catch a glimpse of some movement from the corner of his eye and hear the rustle of leaves or the breaking of a twig, but when he turned he saw nothing but the endless shadow. The permanent twilight made him feel as though he were in a dream, and in dreams anything can happen.

  Brother Envy led the way and gave the impression he knew where he was going, though how he knew was anyone's guess. Behind him came Captain Storn and his men, followed by Max, Eva, Limpet and Liss, with Rollo and his collection of miscreants. They moved in silence, and when anyone spoke it was in hushed tones. Nothing seemed to echo in the forest, sound seemed to be absorbed by the dense trees and the thick, humid air, lending their voices a strange, distant quality, like someone speaking from beyond the grave.

  The monk had warned of wild animals and hostile tribes, but they had yet to come across another living thing. Maximilian wasn't used to having this much time to think, and he wasn't sure if he liked it. Thinking meant he had to face too many truths. Truths he had been able to avoid in Hardway, where survival was foremost in his mind. Now his thoughts were left to their own devices and he found himself analysing all the decisions he had made in his life, and the reasons behind them. He didn't much like his conclusions. He didn't much like himself.

  As his short life ran through his mind, there was just one positive thing that kept coming back to him. The person responsible for the few worthwhile things he had managed to do since he had slid screaming into the World Apparent. The one person who had always believed he could be better, that he was better.

  Eva.

  And even she had eventually given up on him.

  Boarding the Hell's Wind and stowing away was a rash decision, and yet another influenced by his own cowardice. When she told him she was leaving, he had realised very quickly that Eva was the only thing in Hardway that made life worthwhile. Even his art was inspired by her. It was a selfish act, and completely impulsive, but it was the bravest thing he had ever done, and for that he felt a small sense of pride.