Scimitar Sun (49 page)

“We’ll try, Tim,” Chula assured him with a smile. “We’ll sail down to Vulture Isle wi’ lookouts on de fore and maintop’s, den work our way back up in de daylight. Mayhap we’ll spot her tucked in some cove.”

“The chances?” asked Norris. He had always been a man who craved facts, even when they were painful ones.

“Not good, sir Count. She’s fasta, draws less wata, and has a shorta rig.” At the count’s questioning lift of an eyebrow, he explained. “She can go places we can’t, ova shallows and such, and wi’ oua tops’ls up, she’ll be seein’ us long a’fore we see her. Oua only chance is if it comes on to blow; dat’ll make her shorten sail. But dis time o’ year, a blow ain’t likely.”

Norris thanked him and gazed over the white capped swells to the south, toward the shrinking triangle of white that represented his daughter. He gripped Tim’s shoulder. “We’ll find her, Timothy. We’ll find her.”

≈

Chaser and Trident Holder Broadtail arrived on the scene of battle as the sun began its descent toward the western horizon. The floating debris had mostly been cleared by the tides — either washed up on shore or out to sea — or devoured by the scavengers of the sea. Even now a few lazy sharks and barracuda slipped through the water, looking for remains of mer and landwalker.

The hulks of the two warships lay upon the ocean bottom; one was nearly intact, the other a blackened hulk. The surviving mer were scavenging the wrecks, taking what they could use and leaving the rest for the wood-boring worms to devour. A huge heap of steel, bronze and copper lay in the sand, and school leaders were already assigning details to carry the valuable metal back to the home grotto to be reforged into useful items by their own blademages.

The foremost school leader snapped his tail in surprise when Broadtail confronted him.

*Trident Holder!* Blacktail signed, nodding in deference. “As you see, we are victorious! The two warships are destroyed, their crews slaughtered!*

*So I see,* Broadtail signed, sweeping his trident in an arc to indicate the hulk of the sunken
Fire Drake
. *This one bears signs of our victory, but the other…What fire burned this ship?*

*We do not know, Trident Holder,* Blacktail admitted. *Our plan was working; the smaller ship was foundering like a dying whale, and the other was coming into the shallows where we would attack. Then it just burst into flames, as if the gods smote it from above.*

*Perhaps Seamage Flaxal’s Heir was correct, and it
is
good to have a firemage for a friend,* Broadtail signed, remembering her words in the meeting grotto. *What of Eelback? Where is your warleader?*

*I do not know, Trident Holder. When I saw him last he had just dealt with the traitorous seamage. Surely he brought her back to our grotto. Tailwalker was with them. Did they not come to you?*

*They did not,* he signed, glancing at Chaser. The scout’s unbelievable tale was becoming easier to swallow. *You have not seen my son since the battle?*

*No, Trident Holder.* Blacktail’s gills twitched nervously. *Is something wrong?*

*Yes, Blacktail, there are a great many things wrong, but this is not the place to discuss them. Continue taking what can be used from the sunken ships and bring it home with you. There we will convene the school and decide what must be done.*

*Very well, Trident Holder,* Blacktail signed, returning to the formidable task of salvaging the wreckage.

Broadtail turned to the south, and Chaser followed. When they were out of sight of the school, the leader turned to Chaser with a grave posture, his fins slack and his gills clamped down tight.

*I must ask you to do something for me, Chaser, not as your Trident Holder, but as the father of your friend.*

*Anything, Trid — * He stopped in mid-sign, realizing what the request would be. *You want me to find them.*

*I want you to find my son, Chaser. Can you do it?*

*I will try, Broadtail,* he signed, touching the other’s hand in a gesture of friendship. *I do not promise, but I will try.*

*Thank you, Chaser. I free you of service to the school. Act as you will. Use our friends of the deep, your dolphin charges; whatever you need, take from my grotto.* He returned the hand clasp, his grip painful in its desperation. *Just find my son.*

≈

Cynthia Flaxal woke with the setting sun in her eyes and the rising tide lapping at her feet. She groaned at the aches in her shoulders and neck, at the gritty sand on her face, in her mouth, everywhere. She sat up and…it was too easy. Glancing down, she almost fell back in shock: she was no longer pregnant.

“Dear gods, no!” she cried, clutching her abdomen and frantically checking beneath her sodden sarong. There was nothing; no sign of blood or a miscarriage, and she felt no pain, no lingering ache that would suggest that she’d birthed a child. Panic surged through her and she lurched to her feet, casting about for a sign, some indication of what had happened to her.

Then she saw Quickfin, and her horror redoubled.

Her mer friend was tied to a driftwood stump not ten feet from her, his wrists lashed cruelly to the splayed roots, a gaping wound in his stomach.

She stumbled over to him and saw instantly that he was dead — if not from his wounds, then from his long exposure to air. She hoped, for his sake, that he had already been dead when they crucified him. Bewildered, she touched his face — the dry scales, the stiff flesh. Then she remembered the confrontation with Eelback, the attack, killing the warrior Sharkbite, and the blow that had knocked her unconscious.

Her hands drifted back down to her flat stomach and the enormity of her loss struck her. Her knees folded and she collapsed on the sand, rolling onto her side and curling into a fetal ball, shivering violently. Sobs of anguish tore at her throat, sounding to her own ears like the screams of a dying beast.

She had no idea how long she lay on the beach, though she vaguely remembered the sun vanishing in a mockingly beautiful display of fire and water. Several times she tried to get up, but could not find within herself the strength or will to continue breathing, much less sit. Finally, when the stars began to twinkle on the darkening veil of the night, she stirred and managed to push herself up. Through the agony of her loss, one question burned through to the surface.

Why?

She could think of no rationale for what the mer had done to her. She was sure that they had indeed done something; she had not birthed her child naturally. If they thought she had betrayed them, why not simply kill her? To abort her pregnancy, then heal her and cast her ashore…It made no sense. It seemed that
nothing
the mer did made sense to her. Surely they must know that she would come for them, that she would not give up until she had vengeance. Or did they believe that her constant lobbying for peace meant that she was a coward? She remembered those present at the attack; Eelback and his cronies she would have expected, but Kelpie and Tailwalker? Had their friendship been a lie? As confused as she was, the feeling was slowly burned away by a blazing rage that started in the pit of her stomach and grew until she was flushed with its heat. If they expected her to just slink back to her island, they would be greatly surprised when she brought the full power of the sea down on them to crush their city. To oppose her was one thing; to kill her baby was a sin they would sorely regret. She would find out who was responsible for this, and they would pay for her loss.

Then Feldrin’s merry, dark eyes flashed into her thoughts, and she despaired anew.
Their
loss…Feldrin had so dearly anticipated the arrival of their child; she knew how deeply his wrath could delve and she dreaded his response. She wondered if his anger would consume him, if he would still love her, if their relationship would survive this…Would he blame her?

The thought was unbearable; she had lost her baby, she could not stand to lose Feldrin as well. She resolved to go to him immediately, tell him of the horror that had occurred, and promise to make it right, whatever it took.

She looked north, then south, and knew exactly where she was. The glowing smoke plume rising to the south was Fire Isle, and the fainter one just to the north was Plume Island; therefore, she was on Tar Isle. She waded into the water and let the sea’s comforting embrace soothe her and its caress wash away her tears as she urged the waves to bring her home.

≈

In the waning light of day,
Manta
approached a shallow gap in a reef on the windward side of an island; which island, Sam wasn’t exactly sure. Fatigue and thirst muddled her mind, and she’d lost track of her position. She had passed Fire Isle long ago, though she could still see its glow to the northwest, but she was unfamiliar with these mountainous southern islands. She’d spotted the lagoon by chance, and rejoiced to see the thin silvery trail of a waterfall up on the mountain’s green slope — fresh water. So, she’d aimed
Manta’s
bows for a gap in the reef, trimmed her sails and prayed to Odea that it was deep enough.

The trades were kicking up an eight-foot swell and huge breakers crashed on the reef to either side, but the white water showed well enough where the deeper water ran through the gap.
Manta
shot through on the crest of a swell, the coral flying past beneath her for a heartbeat. Sam laughed out loud as the amazing vessel settled onto the clear, calm waters of the lagoon.

Sam brought the bows into the wind and slacked all the halyards, limping to the foredeck to furl the forestaysail and jibs. Her leg hurt even worse now. She needed to get ashore, light a fire, collect some water and find something to eat.

She let the ship drift toward the beach with the wind, using a wood chisel on a string for a lead line to gauge the depth. When the beach was less than a stone’s throw away, she dropped the anchor and let out the rode, easing the vessel back to a stop. The trade winds howled across the deck, pulling hard on the anchor, but it set well in the sand and held the ship firmly with her transoms just off the beach.

Sam grabbed what she needed and put it all in the empty water barrel, peeling out of her salt-caked clothes before easing into the water. Her feet struck the sand before her head went under, and she waded ashore with the barrel. The thin trickle of a stream cut through the beach, and she knelt right in its shallow flow, dug out a little pool with her ravaged hands, then let it fill before dipping her face and drinking her fill. The water had a mineral tang that was strange, but it was fresh, and she drank until she could hold no more.

There was driftwood aplenty on the beach, but she knew a fire in the open could be seen for miles. She pushed through the undergrowth into the jungle until she found a clear space under a huge banyan tree that shielded her from view on all sides, and she set to work.

She dragged together dead wood until she had a small pyre, then lit a fire using the oil from a lamp and a tinderbox she’d found in the box of tools. She filled the bucket from the stream and sat it in the sand close to the fire, then tore the linen cloth that had wrapped her torso into strips and put them in the water. The iron marlinspike from the toolbox went into the coals, the large flat end sticking out on the sand. Sam sat and tried to rest, turning the bucket occasionally so it wouldn’t catch fire as the water heated and the spike began to glow a dull red. Then she unwrapped the sodden bandage on her leg.

The wound was bad, the flesh around both openings puffy, red and warm to the touch. Sam had seen enough bad wounds to know that if she didn’t clean it out, she’d die. She wished there had been a bottle of rum on the
Manta
to give her courage for what she was about to do. She took a strip of cloth from the hot water, wrung it out and soaked it in resin, then folded one end over a long, thin wood chisel that she first held in the flames. She put the tip of the chisel to the larger of the two gaping holes in her leg, put a stick between her teeth and bit down hard, then pushed the cloth through the wound.

She screamed, but the sound was muffled by the stick in her mouth. When the tip of the bloody cloth showed through the other side, she gripped it with a pair of pliers and withdrew the chisel. Blood and thick, greenish pus flowed freely from the wound, which was good. She had to clean it out, and short of slicing open her calf, this was the only way.

Sam drew the resin-soaked strip of cloth through the wound, gritting her teeth and blinking back tears. Her head swam and she took a deep breath, quelling the well of darkness that threatened to drown her. When the last of the cloth was through, and clean blood flowed from the wound, she cast the bloody mess into the fire and gripped the hot marlinspike with the pliers.

Now for the fun part
, she thought without a hint of humor, steeling herself before applying the tip of the glowing hot metal to the wound. She bit down on the stick again, aligned the spike as carefully as she could, and thrust it through the hole in her leg.

Flesh hissed and she screamed through the gag in her mouth, but the bleeding stopped and she was able to pull the hot spike free before darkness overwhelmed her.

≈

“Shambata Daroo!” the cry from the entryway to the keep snapped Camilla from her doze. “The Mistress comes! She returns!”

Camilla stood and rubbed the sleep from her eyes, checking Feldrin quickly as the muttering voices neared the big double doors to the feasting hall. Mouse roused from his position on Feldrin’s chest and sat up, yawning. Camilla smoothed her dress as the doors swung wide.

“Cynthia, it’s — ” Camilla froze, stunned speechless, her eyes fixed on Cynthia’s flat abdomen.

Mouse fluttered aloft, his eyes wide. He drifted over to his mistress but did not land on her shoulder. Instead, he hovered, his gaze flickering from her abdomen to her face and back. “Bebe?” he chirped, eyes questioning.

“How is he, Cammy?” She ignored Mouse, and Camilla’s stare, and closed the distance to the table where Feldrin lay. His right leg, or what remained of it, was propped up on a pile of pillows; the leg ended at the knee, the stump swathed in bandages.