Scimitar Sun (46 page)

*I want to be there to watch this!* Quickfin agreed, grinning through his exhaustion. They had been swimming all night, and now were sprinting to catch up.

Chaser signed agreement, saving his energy for swimming. They were still more than a mile away when the water shook with Cynthia’s shockwave.

They stopped without a sign, staring at each other in wonder.

*That was…* Chaser began, at a loss for words.

*Seamage Flaxal’s Heir,* Quickfin finished for him. *But why would she…*

*She does this to call us when she wishes to visit, but never so strongly.*

*She announces her presence to the landwalkers, maybe?* Quickfin suggested.

*No, the landwalkers use other signs to communicate through air.* He signed curiosity. *She only does this to call to mer, but what mer…*

They looked at each other, then at the surface. Both jetted up as fast as they could swim and shot high into the air, looking as far to the north as they could see. They were still far away, and mer eyes saw poorly above water, but even so, they could see the ships;
Orin’s Pride
sailed evenly, while the huge warship to windward fought to claw its way toward the others. The smaller warship stood still under full sails, heeling sickly over on its side.

They hit the water in a rush of bubbles, and there was only one conclusion to what they had seen.

*The mer attack the landwalker warships!* Quickfin signed even before the bubbles had cleared. *Come, we must join the school!*

They dashed to the north, their vigor renewed, but before they reached the battle they met a tight school of mer swimming south. Quickfin pulled up in front of them and began to sign a greeting when he recognized Eelback. Then he saw the limp bundle they carried — the seamage, her face pale, her garments fluttering in the current — and Tailwalker, arms tied, being dragged along. Quickfin pulled his dagger from its sheath.

*Eelback! You traitor! What have you done to the seamage?*

*I am no traitor, Quickfin,* he signed, then pointed accusatively toward the seamage. *It is
she
who is the traitor! The Voice of the mer chose to go to war, and she opposed us!*

*The Voice could NOT have agreed to this!* Quickfin signed.

*Swim away, friends of the Trident Holder’s eldest,* Eelback signed, grabbing the cord that encircled Tailwalker’s neck. *The seamage has betrayed us, but she still lives. If you wish to do the same, swim away.*

*Release Tailwalker and Seamage Flaxal’s Heir or I will gut you like a fresh-speared tuna, Eelback!* Quickfin signed, flipping his tail furiously.

*You sign bravely for one so outnumbered. Your life is of no concern to me.* He made a gesture that needed no interpretation and half of his school surged forward, spears and tridents thrusting.

*No!* Kelpie signed, swimming forward to confront Eelback, but too late.

Quickfin parried the first thrust with his dagger, but could not hope to deflect them all. He gaped in shock as the tines of a trident pierced his abdomen. His dagger fell from his webbed fingers and he grasped the haft of the weapon embedded in his flesh.

Chaser watched in horror. His hand strayed to his dagger, but he was no warrior; though he could fight if need be, he knew when he was outnumbered. He also knew what his strengths were. He lashed his tail, pivoting in a blink and dashing away, the wake of his stroke billowing the blood of his friend in a swirling cloud. He swam as fast as he could, leaving Eelback’s school far behind, knowing what he had to do.

The Trident Holder must know of this
, he thought as he surged forward, streaking toward home.
Broadtail must know he has been betrayed!

≈

The sky exploded in a shower of fire that Edan felt to the marrow of his bones.
The lighkeeper’s gift
, he realized. He’d helped make some of those casks himself. White phosphorous burned like nothing else, so hot it would catch steel on fire. Flicker squealed in ecstasy, and he knew she felt it, too. Now,
this
was a fire!

Then a cry from forward caught his attention, and Edan gaped in shock at the figure diving into the water. It was
her
! But why had she fired the catapult? And why taunt Captain Brelak…using Bloodwind’s name?

He turned and stared at the beauty of the white phosphorous with questions whirling through his mind. The streamers fell to the water, their glow still visible as they slowly sank beneath the surface. Then the billows of smoke streaked away on the wind and Edan caught another glimpse of the huge warship, its rows of ports bristling with weapons. Before he could even open his mouth in surprise, something hit him and he sprawled to the deck.

The shock of the impact brought him back to his senses, and the screams of shock and pain around him renewed his fear.

A body fell in front of him — Johansen, the boatswain, his blond hair spattered with blood, his hands grasping the tattered flesh of his flayed chest. His eyes centered on Edan’s for an instant, his mouth gaping as a thick crimson pool spread around him. Then the sailor’s gaze lost focus and the blood stopped pumping from between his slack fingers.

Flicker squealed in fright, drawing his attention away from the dead man. He turned and saw Captain Brelak, and he stared in disbelief. The huge man — so strong, so seemingly invincible — lay propped against the cuddy cabin, both hands clutching the shattered remnant of his right leg, trying to staunch the flow of blood. A ballista bolt had passed right through the ship’s bulwark and then the captain’s leg. Its iron tip was now firmly embedded in the bulwark on the far side of the ship, its wooden shaft stained crimson. Edan watched in mute horror, stunned immobile, at the man’s struggle to staunch the pulsing flow of blood.

“Mouse!” Feldrin bellowed through gritted teeth, his hands drenched with his own blood. “Mouse, get my belt! My belt! Quick!”

The seasprite’s wings were a blur as Mouse flew quick as a flash, flipped open the man’s belt buckle and hauled the stout length of leather out through the loops. Struggling with the heavy belt, he looped it twice around the captain’s torn leg above the wound, then threaded it back through the buckle and hauled it as tight as he could. Feldrin released his grip on his leg, and blood jetted from the shattered knee before he cinched the belt tight against shattered bone.

The captain’s scream rent the air, shaking Edan to his soul. He cringed, watching the man pull the belt tighter and tighter. When the flow of blood finally ebbed and stopped, the captain slumped against the side of the cabin, gasping for breath.

Numb with shock, Edan stood and gazed around the deck. Dozens of the deadly ballista bolts pierced the hull. One completely transfixed the mainmast, its iron tip and shaft sticking out opposite sides. The mast was cracked up its length, but had not split. One sail flapped in the wind, set free when the lines that held it were severed in the barrage.

Horace bellowed orders and sailors shouted their responses. The helmsman tried to steer the ship with one hand, his other hand a torn and shattered ruin. Nearly sick, Edan turned toward the rail and saw the huge warship, her long oars biting into the water to bring her other side to bear, the triple line of ports already bristling with the deadly tips of more ballistae.

Edan stared at those weapons, riveted, terrified.
Orin’s Pride
and her crew could not withstand another flight of those deadly missiles. They would all be killed, or the ship would sink and they would drown.

“No,” he said, clenching his fists against his fear. He knew what he had to do.

Edan closed his eyes and stretched out his senses. The fires aboard the huge warship were like shimmering beacons to him: the cauldrons of boiling pitch and braziers of burning coals being readied by the catapult crews; the lanterns and lamps on every deck; the two great galley stoves, coal fires smoldering in their bellies. He could feel each fire intimately — its life — its hunger.

He called to the fire, and it answered.

“Burn,” he said, exerting his will on the flames, urging them to rise. Flicker clung to his neck, whispering excited, indecipherable words in his ear.

“Burn,” he whispered, feeling the rush of power. “Burn it all!”

≈

“Ready starboard ballistae!” Captain Flauglin ordered as the ship came slowly around. He lowered his glass, having surveyed with grim satisfaction the damage wrought by their first broadside. “Ballistae only, Lieutenant, but keep the catapults ready.”

“Aye, sir!” The lieutenant relayed the orders to the weapon crews.

“We’ll give her one more broadside.” He probably could have let the schooner go after only one barrage, but it was a matter of principal now; they had fired on him, even if their shot had fallen short. He glanced at the commodore and noted that the muscles of the man’s jaw were tight, perhaps repressing a smile.

“Starboard ballistae ready, sir!” the lieutenant reported.

“Fire as the target bears, Lieutenant,” he ordered.

“Aye, sir!” The officer glanced down the line of the deck as the bow swept ponderously around to windward, the port-side sweeps pulling hard. He raised his hand, ready to signal the weapon crews once the
Clairissa’s
side came abeam of the crippled schooner.

“Fire!”

The excited shout was not the lieutenant’s authoritative command, but a shrill scream of terror, and the officer looked around for the culprit who had usurped his order.

Then another cry rang out from forward, and another, then screams of “Fire! Fire in the hold!” came from below.

Captain Flauglin turned from his quarry to look along the deck of his ship, and his mouth fell open in shock. Fire leapt up from every brazier. The slow matches flared in the hands of the catapult crews. A pitch pot burst, spattering men with its burning contents.

“Fire crews to the main deck!” he shouted. “Belay that broadside, Lieutenant!” A man behind him screamed. A lamp had exploded, dousing the sailor with burning oil; he ran blazing across the deck, every step leaving a spot of flame that licked at the wood. The signalman cried out as the stern lantern exploded near him, setting the furled spanker ablaze. “ALL HANDS! Buckets! Bring water!”

“Captain Flauglin, what the hell…”

He looked to the frightened commodore and cringed at the man’s white-faced fear, then his eyes were drawn down to the deck beneath the officer’s polished boots. The wood was smoking — blackening beneath his feet!

“Sir! I — ” But Captain Flauglin’s words were cut off. The deck incandesced white and exploded into flames.

≈

“Holy gods of light and darkness,” Horace muttered. Heat from the explosion bathed his face.

The entire flagship, every bit of wood and canvas from stem to stern, topmast to keel, burst into flames. A whirling cyclone whipped the inferno into the sky, fanning the fires like a stoked furnace. Screams of burning men rose on the heat-blasted air. Some of the blazing sailors plunged into the sea, falling from the burning yards to escape the flames, while others collapsed where they stood, blackened husks of charred flesh consumed by the fire. The cries of a thousand dying men mingled with the roar of the inferno and rose on the air as his majesty’s flagship
Clairissa
died in flames.

And above that torrent of noise…laughter.

Horace turned, sickened by that incongruous sound, to see Edan staring at the blazing ship, his eyes glowing with ecstasy, the laughter rolling from his throat like water from a well.

“Bloody mad,” Horace muttered, reacting to that horrible laughter the only way he knew how. Two steps brought him to the young man’s side, and his big hand snatched one slim shoulder and flung him around.

“Wha — ?”

But the Edan’s bark of astonishment was cut off by a blow from Horace’s fist that snapped his head back and laid him out flat on the deck. The little fire demon tied to his wrist was snapped back with him. She recovered first, shaking her head in surprise, her hair scorching the planks. In panic, she turned to Edan and started patting his face as if to wake him, but Edan was out cold.

“Wallace, chain that lunatic below!” Horace snapped, and then turned and knelt next to the captain, who lay unconscious in a pool of blood.

“Aye, sir!” The crewman shouted, grabbing the collar of the Edan’s shirt and hauling him toward the main hatch.

“Run his shackles through an eyebolt in the keel! If he burns this ship, he’s goin’ down with it! And make bloody sure that little demon is in her cage so
she
can’t set the ship afire.” He felt the captain’s pulse; it was fast and weak, but the bleeding had stopped. The seasprite crouched on Brelak’s shoulder, trying to wake him, but Horace thought it was probably best if he remained unconscious. Shards of broken bone showed through the torn meat of his knee, and his leg was cold below the wound. There was no pulse in his ankle. “Bloody hells!

“Somebody help get the captain below. Any other injuries? Rhaf! Get that hand bandaged! Someone take the wheel!” He stood and surveyed the damage. The ship would sail, though with a bolt through her mainmast, he’d rather not strain her rig. One foremast shroud had been severed at the deadeyes, but a crewman was already replacing the shattered block, and a new sheet had been attached to the flapping jib. The rest of the rig was intact, though holes riddled the sails and a dozen man-long ballista shafts protruded from her port side.

He turned and grimaced at the spectacle of the two warships dying in his wake. The
Clairissa
had already burnt to the water. The tips of her mighty masts, still in flames, were slipping beneath the sea’s surface. The
Fire Drake
crawled with mer like a maggot-infested corpse, water spilling over her gunwales and her decks awash as she was dragged under. A slick of wreckage, bodies, burned bits of wood and canvas, fouled the water. The only ship to escape damage was the
Lady Gwen
. She’d cut her anchor rode and set all sail, heading north at her best speed.