Blaggard's Moon (62 page)

Darkness had come.

He sighed. He'd saved the girl. He'd known just what he was doing, though he told the Captain, and himself for a while, that he'd only obeyed orders. He knew better. He'd always known better. He'd just lied to himself. He wondered how often he'd done that and not ever paid attention again. Over his lifetime, he'd probably lied to himself more than he'd lied to anyone else. Maybe more than he'd lied to everyone else combined. It seemed to him now that he'd gotten quite good at it, so good he didn't hardly even notice it anymore.

He'd saved the girl, but he hadn't been able to save Jenta. No, that wasn't right. No more lies. He'd saved Autumn, but he'd let Jenta die. No, that wasn't quite true enough either. He'd killed Jenta. He was a pirate, serving Belisar, and before Belisar, the Conch. Delaney had helped those two captains kill off Damrick, and then Wentworth, and now Jenta. All their most powerful, dangerous challengers.

His heart sank very low. He knew the mermonkey would come soon. He remembered the fear he'd felt earlier when he saw that thing. And then he felt it again, less than an hour ago. And he knew the next time he felt that fear, it would be the end, the real end of everything.

He didn't want to die. He was ready for it, maybe, but he didn't want it. Anything else was a lie.

He was afraid to die.

He was afraid of death.

He thought some more, wondering why. And he had to admit that it was not just fear of the unknown. Or the pain of crossing over. It was hell. He was afraid of hell. He was afraid of a place of eternal torment, the only place he was sure he deserved.
Hell's Gatemen
, Damrick called his men. They called themselves that name to scare pirates, as though that armband and that red feather gave them the right to open the very gates of Hades and usher pirates like Delaney inside. It was a name designed to strike fear into the heart of the lawless. And it did.

It did because it was true. They did send pirates just like him straight to hell. And that's where he was going.

But not straight there. First, he'd have to be eaten by monsters.

Where was that sense of peace, of knowing it was right? Of knowing it was God's judgment and therefore good? It was gone, is where it was. God being just didn't make hell any better.

And then he remembered what Jenta had said. She said that Damrick had loved her even when she didn't love herself. He'd rescued her, even when she didn't know it was possible. When she was sure she hadn't deserved it.

If only he had someone who loved him that much.

If only.

A sudden thud, and the post on which he sat rocked like it had been struck by a…

He gripped the wood tight with his feet. His bowels clenched up within him. His jaw squeezed shut until he heard a tooth crack. His heart clattered in his chest, and he heard the blood pounding through his ears.

He felt claws bite into the wood, deep under the water.

He felt, he heard the scraping as those claws moved upward. He could feel the hands as they clenched again, climbing. He could see the mermonkey in his mind, just as clearly as if it were broad daylight and he was looking at it with his eyes. More clearly, more terribly, because his mind's eye would not close. It stayed open, showing him the horror, the terror, that climbed toward him.

Then he heard the water move. Just a ripple at first, and then a dripping.

Then he heard a hiss, like a cat. It was the scream, the silent scream
of the monkey that he'd seen but not heard. Now he heard, but did not see.

But he did see. He saw nothing else—his eyes were blank but his vision was filled with it. The sharp teeth bared, the white flesh pasty like dough.

He felt the vibration as one clawed hand moved, and then heard the clink of the pointed claws, heard them bite the wood above the surface with the merest of squeaks. The post shuddered. It shook, not a little, but like it was whipping back and forth, vibrating like a flag caught in a storm. And he knew that he was shaking it, not the mermonkey. His whole body was shaking.

And then noises came from him, from his chest, his throat. Gurgling at first, as his chest constricted, and he could not breathe in. Then, as he felt the hand of the monster move again and the claws squeak into the wood again, he heard a whine, a high-pitched, ragged sound that he could not control, that came from inside him, that would come out from within him no matter what he wanted, no matter what he tried, as though the noise wasn't just coming
from
him, but it
was
him, his being, leaking out, forced out by the horror below.

His legs were pulled up tight, his heels now digging into his buttocks. Pain raged through his thighs, his calves, as they knotted up like a monkey's fist. And the thing kept moving, claws gripping. And then it hissed again. And the noise in his chest became a wail, then a moan, then a long, low howl. He wanted to cry out for help, to plead to God to save him, but no words came. His howl became his final prayer.

And then he felt its cold hand on his ankle, and his chest seized up, his cry ceased.

It was a gentle touch at first, just a soft, frigid hand sending a shiver of cold fear shooting through him.

Then it grabbed him, the cold, clammy paw wrapping all the way around his ankle and tightening like a vise, until he thought it would squeeze right through to crush his bones.

And then it whipped him off the post, snatched him away and threw him out over the water like he was little more than a rag. And just before he hit the surface, he heard it hiss again.

He managed one breath before he submerged, and then only because he opened his mouth to scream again and his chest cooperated, suddenly sucking in air…and then water. He smacked into the surface of the pond, a painful slap, and was under in an instant, and it was dragging him down.

He coughed once, a single bubble, and then he went limp.

The thing had him. It still had him by the ankle. It hadn't let go. Now it pulled him under, and down. Now it grabbed his wrist, and a hand on his chest pushed him roughly into the muck on the bottom of the pond. He felt the mud, the cold muck on his back. He felt the claws on his chest. He knew now it wasn't one, but two. More.

And he saw them. He opened his eyes, and saw the glow, just a faint glow, like lightning buzzing in the rigging. But in this light it was enough. They were not white, but golden. A faint yellow-gold color. One grabbed his arm above the elbow. He looked at his chest and saw another, with claws on his rib cage. He felt claws on his skull. The hard, pointed nails bit in.

The ripping had begun.

He didn't fight it. He closed his eyes.

He let it happen.

And then he heard the song. It was the girl again. Her song. And he was glad to hear it. It was sorrow and joy and peace. It sounded like prayers, and the answer to prayers. And the fear fled from the song. It fled from him. The song had come for him. It was sent to soothe him, to help him. There was warmth in it. And he was grateful.

The words came with the song, soft and far away, but clear, too, somehow.

A true lang time,

A lang true la,

And down the silver path into a rushing sea,

Where moons hang golden under boughs of green,

A lang true la, 'tis true,

The true heart weeps

As her song she sings,

A true lang time for you…

And he saw twin lights. Small, bright, shimmering above him, like welcoming stars.

And then it was over.

There was no pain. He could feel no claws. He felt nothing but peace. He was rising up, up from the muck and the dark, floating upward.

The stars grew larger, and larger, until they weren't stars at all. They were moons. Golden moons, and he rose toward them. The music was
clearer now, and more beautiful. He saw, as he rose, the trees, and was content. The moons hung golden, under boughs of green. He was inside the song. And it was wondrous. The voice…it was no longer the little girl who sang, but a richer voice, richer and warmer and wiser, pure and sorrowful and…he recognized it, somehow.

And then he broke the surface, and he saw her.

It was Jenta.

But it wasn't Jenta. Her skin was marked, and it glowed with light where it was marked, as though someone had carved beautiful lines to emphasize every curve of her cheeks, patterns along her chin, across her jaw, around her forehead, her shoulders, her arms, her hands. She held torches, twin torches, one in each hand. And she looked down at him as she sang. And her eyes were blue, and full of light, a warm flickering of flame.

And then hands reached out to him, blocking his view of her. And they pulled him from the water. They were rough hands, and they hurt him.

And then he knew that he had not died. He knew that he had been rescued. She had, somehow, saved him.

He coughed, and then gagged, and then coughed some more, and murky water flowed out onto the floor of the boat. He had swallowed a great deal of it. He turned over, and lay looking up at her. She was standing, wrapped in light, in a wispy fabric that seemed to flow, and to glow in the firelight. She had dropped her hands, though she still held the torches. Flame fled upward, and he feared it would burn her. But hands took the torches from her now and held them high.

She kept singing, softly now, as though she could barely remember the song, or why she was singing it. Her eyes were far away, not looking at him anymore.

“What happened?” he asked her. Her voice trailed off, and she hummed. But she did not stop singing, and she did not answer him.

He looked away from her. These were Hants in the boat, two warriors, painted like skeletons, and the old chieftain, his face a glowing skull in the dark, his hedgehog bristles sticking out from behind. The two warriors looked at the water, and held the torches over it.

He sat up. The boat wasn't the skiff, and it wasn't the shallop. It was made of dark wood, covered in what looked like leaves. It was the Hants' boat. He looked over the lip, and down into the water. He saw men below, two of them, swimming underwater. They weren't mermonkeys, but men painted like skeletons, and the paint glowed, like the lines in Jenta's skin
glowed, like her garment glowed, like the mermonkeys had glowed. As he watched, they swam beneath an outcropping of rock, down under the water, and they disappeared.

They swam into a cave.

The Hant chieftain spoke. “Nooloo hah mowbray.”

“You go,” a voice said. He squinted past Jenta, past the chieftain, and saw the old man, the sickly translator, in the shadows at the back of the boat. “Go to the treasure,” he said.

Delaney looked at him curiously. He didn't understood.

“The gold you seek,” the old man explained. “It is below.”

It took him a moment more to sort it out. Then he understood. Conch's gold, that's what he meant. It was in the cave, in the mermonkey's cave. That's where Conch had put it. He had put it where it could never be found, could never be touched. Belisar wanted the map. He would go to find the map, but the map would only lead him back here.

But where were the mermonkeys? He couldn't see them.

Jenta sang.

Oh, carry my burthen, and carry her true,

For she steers for the south and the east

And the few,

A lang true la,

The drum and the yew…

And then he knew. The song was the map. She had written the map into the song.

He rolled over the edge of the boat and splashed into the pond. He took a deep breath, and then swam down, down, below the lip of the rock, and into the cave. Within ten feet, he could swim up, and he did. He broke the surface. At first he didn't understand what he saw. Everything was golden and glowing. Then he realized it was a lichen, a plant of some sort that glowed. It covered the walls. He saw the two Hants who had swum down before him, now standing above him. They motioned to him. He climbed out of the water and stood beside them. They pointed.

He looked.

What he saw was a nest. A wide nest, twenty feet across, thirty feet wide, five feet deep. It was filled with coins. It glowed. He saw the crates, and splinters of crates, rotting barrels. Conch had carried his gold in here, to be protected by
Onka Din Botlay
. The monsters had made their bed out of Conch's gold. Hundreds of thousands of coins.

“Oh hahn fooh.” One of the Hants pointed at him. Then he squatted down, and put his hand into the golden glow. He held it up to Delaney.

Delaney knelt down and did the same, scooping up the gold with both hands.

But it didn't feel like gold. The coins were sticky, and spongy, and melted away where he touched them. And now he smelled it. It was putrid. He tried to drop the golden mess, but much of it clung to his skin. He climbed back down to the water to wash it off. He scrubbed at it, but it stuck to him. He feared it would never come off, but then suddenly it dissolved away, glowing, disappearing into the water. He wiped his hands on his pants, hoping the stuff wouldn't poison him.