Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (69 page)

 
          
The
scrape of timbers on the narrow strand that flanked the stream rang loud in
Calandryll's ears. He lowered himself over the side and waded to shore,
straightsword in hand, feeling sweat run down his ribs, the armor an unpleasant
weight across his shoulders, the helmet hot upon his head. Bracht joined him,
his blue eyes seeming to gleam with anticipation beneath his helm's beak. Katya
waved them farther up the shore, Quara and the other women flanking them.

 
          
Urs
and his crew dragged the longboat beneath the shelter of a tall palm and
manhandled the barrels clear. He and Katya spoke briefly and then the woman
beckoned her party about her, translating her instructions for Calandryll and
Bracht.

 
          
"Urs
and his men will fill the barrels and ferry them back. We press inland. Likely
we shall find game using this freshet. Stay close."

 
          
"At
your side," Bracht whispered.

 
          
Katya
looked to Quara; pointed at the trees. Silently, the Vanu archers drifted into
the jungle.

 
          
The
night grew blacker there, what little light the sky offered dimmed by the
overhanging trees, the stream their compass. They moved along its bank,
hampered by vines and great roots, thick stands of exotic plant life scenting
the air so that sweet perfumes merged with the reek of decay. A game trail
crossed their path and they traversed it, seeking to come on the watering place
upwind of whatever animals might drink there. It was slow going, the ground
beneath their feet spongy, the trees close-spaced and hung with lianas, those
decorated with spiders' webs, the strands sticky and unpleasant to the touch
but at last they saw the stream widen to a pool, fed by a spring, the
surrounding bamboo cut with trails, the soil around the water bare of
vegetation and muddy where hooves and paws had cleared a space. Unbidden, Quara
and the others ranged themselves windward of the water. Katya settled beside a
tree, Bracht and Calandryll to her left.

 
          
Time
passed and darkness with it, the patch of sky above becoming grey announcement
of impending dawn. A troop of monkeys swung down and drank, scampering back to
the safety of the upper branches when a great striped cat padded to the
waterside. The regal beast drank in solitary splendor, fading back into the
jungle as suddenly as it had come. A long-tusked boar appeared, snorting, two
sows behind, and then nine fat deer emerged nervous from the shadows, led by an
antlered buck. He sniffed the air, scut twitching, and walked daintily to the
pool. His harem followed. Five arrows flew across the water: five deer fell.
The herd scattered, the pigs with them, and the jungle was abruptly, ominously,
silent.

 
          
The
Vanu women moved swiftly, splashing through the shallow water to retrieve their
shafts and hack lengths of bamboo to which they lashed three of the deer.
Bracht and Calandryll sheathed their swords and slung the remaining animals
across their shoulders, following Katya down the course of the stream, anxious
now to regain the shore, careless of the noise they made in their urgency.

 
          
Five
deer seemed little enough to feed the numbers of the warboat's crew, but
already the sky brightened, the grey fast fading, glowing with the promise—the
threat— of the rising sun, and they moved as swift they could along the stream,
unpleasantly aware of the arrows that might greet them were they found by the
inhabitants of this hostile land.

 
          
They
encountered Urs and his men toward the shore, laboring under the weight of
filled barrels, and splashed past them to deposit their game in the boat. The
sky by now was silvery and the warboat clear upon the sea, a marker to any
observers. Urs and his men came with the water and stowed the barrels on board.
Three, Katya told them as the longboat made the crossing, were already taken
back, and one more trip would see them stocked sufficiently.

 
          
"Then
we've time to hunt again," Bracht said, grinning as doubt showed on
Katya's face. "Come—there's no sign of danger and those five deer are
scarce enough."

 
          
She
thought for a moment, tom between remaining on the shore and the prospect of
more meat.

 
          
"Urs
must fill his casks and return with them," Bracht urged, "and we must
wait for that—we have the chance to take more meat."

 
          
Katya's
wide lips pursed, but then she nodded, speaking with Quara, and the hunting
party returned into the jungle. Four pigs rewarded their venture and they found
Urs awaiting them, his barrels loaded. The pigs were rapidly tossed into the
scuppers and the longboat pushed off, too heavy laden to carry the archers.
They remained on the little strand, arrows nocked, as the sky became blue and
the wind rose again, Quara and her women watching the brightening jungle, Katya
and the two men the sea. The longboat moved, it felt, with painful slowness.
Calandryll felt apprehension mount, staring to north and south, convinced that
on the moment dugouts must appear, or arrows fly from the undergrowth. He
watched as the dinghy reached the warboat, ropes tossed down to haul the
barrels on board, the pigs passed up by hand. It seemed a horribly slow
process, measured against the urgent beating of his heart, sweat an irritation
on his face, joined now by the insects that swarmed with the burgeoning day. At
last the longboat was emptied, turning toward shore, the oars dipping fast; apd
Bracht cried a warning.

 
          
From
the south came two dugouts.

 
          
From
behind came another cry; that and the rush of arrows.

 
          
Calandryll
turned, sword useless in his hand against the volley of green-fletched shafts
that whistled from the undergrowth. A blow knocked air from his lungs and he
staggered, seeing a missile drop, blunted on his mail. The Vanu archers
returned fire, but blind, their assailants hidden. A second arrow glanced off
his helm, the metal protecting him from serious hurt, but ringing with the
impact, his head spinning. A woman screamed, falling as a shaft pierced an eye.
Quara shouted and the archers fell back, grouping defensively on the shore.
Longboat and canoes raced to reach them, the victor unguessable. The dinghy was
closer, but only four men manned the sweeps; the dugouts held twenty or thirty
oarsmen and sped swifter toward them. He heard Katya mouth a curse, in her own
language but its import clear, and Bracht shout again as the arrows ceased and
tattooed bodies erupted screaming from the jungle.

 
          
The
Kern met the onslaught with his own charge. Calandryll was vaguely surprised to
find himself at Bracht's side, unaware that he ran with sword upraised until he
saw a black face confront him; and the spear that thrust for his belly.

 
          
He
twisted in midstride, trapping the lance against his ribs as his blade slashed
across the savage face. The man fell and he turned, countering the jagged club
that arced at his head with a sweeping, upward cut that near-severed hand from
wrist. He brought his sword down across the chest and parried a second spear,
skewering his attacker. A blow landed against his back and he tottered forward,
dragging his blade loose as he sidestepped, avoiding the viciously spiked mace
that swung at his ribs. Three savages rushed him and he retreated before them,
seeing one fall to Katya's saber, another to Bracht's falchion. The Kern cut
the third down and for an instant there was a lull. Calandryll saw a semicircle
of tattooed faces, their decoration grotesque, bones clattering about the
necks, on wrists and waists. He realized, horrified, that most were human. He
risked a backward glance and saw the longboat closing on the shore, the canoes
a little farther south. Beyond, the warboat turned, the maneuver ponderous, the
sweeps brining her slowly around landward as archers grouped on the foredeck
and between the oarsmen.

 
          
Tekkan
sought, he saw, to bring the dugouts within bowshot. It was impossible: the
canoes would beach before the warboat could reach them, before Urs could land
the dinghy. There was no chance of escape and he knew that he was going to die;
that soon his bones would hang from a cannibal's necklace. He felt a strange
calm: he had died before, or so he had thought, and suddenly the fact of it
seemed immaterial, only the manner important. Perhaps Tekkan would go on to
Gessyth, to Tezin-dar, and bring the Arcanum to Vanu. He hoped it might be so.

 
          
He
raised his sword and shouted and charged headlong into the savage ranks.

 
          
Surprise
showed then on the barbaric faces, and a kind of grim respect; and pain on some
as he cut to right and left, carving a path through them, possessed by berserk
fury. He heard a familiar shout and knew that Bracht was at his side, and saw
through the flailing clubs and thrusting spears that Katya fought with them.
Saw, too, that black-shafted Vanu arrows sprouted from chests and ribs as the
archers used their bows. The madness gripped him, dulling the pain of the blows
that crashed against his mail shirt and the helm, the straightsword light in
his hand and bloodied down all its length. Then Bracht was before him, shouting
something, gesturing at the sea, and he felt Katya seize his arm and turn him
round, propelling him back toward the ocean.

 
          
The
longboat floated a little way off, and from the war- boat archers flighted
shafts into the cannibal ranks. The tattooed men fell back and Calandryll
allowed his comrades to urge him into the water. He clambered over the gunwale,
and crouched on a thwart as the others came on board, the boat laden heavy with
all their weight, slow as Urs bellowed orders and the sweeps dipped, carrying
them toward the dark bulk of the warboat, that turned now, arrows raining on
the approaching dugouts.

 
          
He
saw there was a chance he might live and felt the madness drain away, replaced
with fear as hope rose tantalizing. Along the shore the cannibals stood
watching, fallen back to the shelter of the jungle. He wondered if he should
reach the warboat before the canoes came, or if, at the last, the savages would
take the victory. He felt suddenly weary. His head ached now and dull fire
throbbed along his ribs and through his sword arm. On the beach he saw three
bodies, armored among the black corpses, and felt sorrow that they had died.

 
          
The
warboat drifted closer. The canoes veered off, seeking to come around beneath
the bow, one deterred by the Vanu archers, the other succeeding, hurtling
closer, spears and arrows arcing dark against the azure sky. He saw the
warboat, black against the blue of sky and sea, a promise of safety, could they
but reach it, and the fear rose up, a swelling tide as he realized the dugout
must reach them first. He raised a hand: an ineffectual protest. And saw the
dugout lifted from the water, savages spilling screaming as it rolled over, a
twig blown on a silent wind, buffeted in the soundless gale, driven back toward
the shore. That same impossible wind caught the other, men flying helpless in
the gusting, the dugout spinning, rushing landward. Tattooed faces bobbed in
the water, no longer threatening but terrified now, staring awestruck, then
turning to swim desperately to the safety of the land. From the beach came a
howling, not challenge but lament, the savages there retreating into the jungle
as their fellows dragged themselves ashore and scurried for the trees.

 
          
Calandryll
smelled almonds on the wind, fading now, as did his fear, leaving only the
weariness. He sank back, unaware of whose shoulder pillowed him, and closed his
eyes.

 
          
They
reached the warboat, Urs steering past the sweeps to come around the stem, the
welcome bulk between them and the shore, and he was hauled on board, slumping
on the deck as Tekkan roared orders and the sweeps reversed, the tiller thrust
hard over. The dragon's head prow turned north again, the little beach left
behind them.

 
          
Calandryll
slipped the latchings of his helm and set it on the planks. He saw that the
metal was dented in three places, and when he touched his head—with his left
hand, for his right arm was stiff and he could not raise it—he felt painful
swellings beneath his hair. His ribs ached and he saw his hands painted dull
crimson, blood drying fast in the hot morning air. He began to scrub at them,
horrified, less for the lives he had taken than the knowledge that he had slain
men without compunction or thought. He closed his eyes, then opened them as his
throbbing head spun and he felt a hand on his shoulder. A woman passed him a flask
and he drank, gasping as fire coursed his throat. He coughed, and the woman
gestured, motioning for him to drink again. This time he sipped and the fire
dulled, becoming a pleasant warmth that filled his belly and flowed outward
through the tissues of his aching muscles. He felt the pain eased and smiled
his thanks, returning the flask. Beside him, Bracht sipped and wiped blood from
his face.