Swordmistress of Chaos (10 page)

And saw the ship.

So low against the sea did it rest that at first they missed it, but as it sped closer, they made out the delineations of its shape. The sail showed first; stark black against the silvery joidure of sky and ocean, its centre picked out with a great horned device of violent red. It was a square sail, hung from a single mast that boasted a pennant whipped to crackling straightness by the speed of the boat’s passage. To either side of the low-slung shape oars lifted and dipped in unison, striking the sea with scarce a ripple as they drove the ship arrow-straight towards the circling bird. As it drew closer, they could make out a great, high-lifting prow, carved to the semblance of a snarling wolf’s head, and the onager mounted behind the grinning teeth.

Spellbinder’s own teeth clamped shut as he saw it his narrow face drawing tight in an expression of alarm and disapproval.

‘Kragg,’ he grunted through thinned lips. ‘Lifebane’s sea-wolves have found us.’

The black craft circled them once, giving Raven a clear view of its long, low lines, the single bank of oars mounted below the deck. At the prow a group of men stood, ready to use the onager, whilst along the length of the deck there were others carrying longbows and javelins. At the stern, its deck-planking raised above the rest or the vessel, was a giant of a man, his golden hair streaming from beneath a winged helmet.

Spellbinder saw him and groaned one word: ‘Gondar.’

Raven had no chance to ask what he meant, though it struck her that he appeared anxious to be saved by some other rescuer than this black-hulled wolf-ship, for the golden giant swung a grappling hook around his head and hurled it towards them. The barbed tines landed neatly over their gunwale, and the huge man began to haul his vessel alongside. Single-handed, he dragged them close enough to reach the deck-wall of the wolf-ship, then calloused hands stretched down to haul them bodily onto the deck.

For a while they rested there, catching their breath as the water drained from their soaking clothing. Raven heard a hoarse cry and looked up to see the black bird winging its way off to the north.

‘The bird favours you, strangers.’

The voice was deep, a ringing bass such as might be expected to emanate from a chest half as deep again as any mortal man’s. It belonged to the blond giant, who now stared down from the stern, a smile dancing across his bearded lips.

‘Lucky that it brought us to you from the midst of battle.’

‘Battle?’ Spellbinder stood up, looking towards the giant. ‘Who do you fight?’

‘Kharwhan,’ answered the giant easily. ‘What other foe is worthy of Gondar Lifebane?’

‘I’d heard,’ said Spellbinder, ‘that Gondar was a wizened magician, too far gone in years to prowl the deck of a wolf-ship. And too consumed with anguish and hatred to rescue shipwrecked voyagers.’

‘You heard wrong, friend,’ laughed the giant. And vaulted the stern rail to thud down afront them. ‘Though I’d know from whom you heard it.’

‘Why,’ said Spellbinder evenly, ‘there are widows the length of the Southern Shore who swear to the tale, and settlements in the nomad kingdoms where luckless survivors tell the same story. Sailors in the Altan’s fleet speak of the sea-wolves’ fury...those still capable of speech.’

Raven thought that the giant would strike Spellbinder where he stood. Certainly, he was muscled for it, and the great axe he carried so negligently looked to have a blade honed fine enough that a man might shave with it. If he could lift it.

But instead, the giant threw back his head and laughed.

‘Aye! The lies told of Lifebane are many, and mightily varied. True it is that the wolf-ships pluck a prize now and then, for sword-toll is due to those strong enough to take it. But Lifebane never left a man to drown; nor am I wizened and old.’

He let his axe fall to the deck, the curved head bedding deep into the smooth planks, and studied the two refugees. Raven wiped sea-wrack from her eyes and returned his gaze. For the first time, she saw the true. measure of his stature, set against Spellbinder’s height. Tall was the dark-haired warrior, but this golden-maned colossus towered a full head above him, and where Spellbinder was lean and smoothly-muscled, this man was corded and banded with sinews of steel. Atop his head rested a silver helm, great wings of beaten metal extending out and back from the temples, a broad nose-piece dividing his face. His eyes were grey as a misty morning, shining with mingled amusement and battle-lust from a wide face tanned by wind and sun to the colour of soft leather. His hair hung down his shoulders, joining the spread of moustache and beard that hid all but his gleaming teeth. Gold met silver where the hair spread across the links of his mail shirt, from which protruded arms mighty as young oak stems. Torques of silver and gold and platinum wound around those huge arms, their brightness contrasting with the dark of his skin. The mail was gathered in by a wide belt of leather, from which hung a wide-bladed knife in a silver-worked sheath. He wore a loin cloth of salt-caked linen, and his massive legs were bare except for high sea-boots of some waterproof material that shone black as the sun caught them. His axe was of the dark northern metal, the Quwhon steel, and stood tall as a tall man’s waist, yet he handled the thing like a toy.

He was, Raven decided, suppressing a shiver of instinctive desire, the most impressive man she had ever seen.

Gondar, for this was none other than the Lifebane himself, appeared equally intrigued by her. Suddenly, she was conscious of her scanty clothing, the sea-wolf’s admiring gaze acting as a mirror to remind her. She stood up, damp hair framing her face, tumbling loose to her waist. Wind and Water plucked her nipples to hard points beneath the skimpy cloth of her shift, thrusting against the near-transparent material as her breasts rose as though to challenge his stare. The shift reached no farther than her upper thighs, and beneath it she was naked, the clean lines of her legs braced wide upon the deck.

‘Aye,’ murmured the giant, ‘Worldheart is kind to those she loves. Now she gives me as rich a prize as any sea-wolf might dream of.’

Spellbinder stepped forward. He had retained a slender belt of black Xand leather, and through it was thrust a slim dagger.

‘The girl is prize to no man,’ he said softly, though his voice carried, startling hands to sword and axe hilts. ‘She is not for the taking.’

Gondar laughed, plucking his axe from the deck. ‘What? You’d argue my prize? A naked fishbait would set his little dagger to Gondar’s skull-cleaver?’

‘If I must,’ said Spellbinder, ‘though it might be that I have other weapons.’

‘As, indeed, have I,’ chuckled Lifebane. ‘Though only one is for you. However,’ he grew thoughtful, ‘what you say suggests a thing that troubles me. Your pale skin, that hair, they reek of Kharwhan. Are you of the Ghost Isle?’

Spellbinder shrugged. ‘Perhaps. Though if you think to make me hostage, there will be little reward in it. You know full well that Kharwhan—even were I from the island—would not parley for my release. No, Lifebane, what I say is this: the igirl and I have come a long way together, and there is a kinship between us. If you want her, then you must fight me. Otherwise there is no honour in it, and much disgrace.’

‘Have I no say in this?’ Raven resented the almost casual discussion of her future. ‘Am I some chattel to be thrown to the victor? I tell you both: I’ll pick my own man, and whoever seeks to argue that will have no joy of me.’

‘A sea-queen!’ Gondar bellowed. ‘A veritable daughter of the All-Mother! You please me, pretty one, as much for your spirit as with that body. For too long I’ve had weak-spined women, too frightened to say me nay. So,’ he paused, letting his crewmen drink in his words, ‘we’ll stay our bout until I’ve defeated your champion. For that we shall return to Kragg.’

‘No; said Raven, her own voice penetrating deep into the sudden silence. ‘You must defeat me.’

A great stillness settled over the wolf-boat, so quiet that the gentle lapping of the waves sounded unnaturally loud. Mouths gaped wide in amazement, and eyes stared at the blonde amazon who dared argue her bed with Gondar Lifebane. For long, dangerous moments, Raven watched the giant. Spellbinder’s hand hung close by the hilt of his dagger, his body tensed to move on an eye-blink’s warning. But then the tension evaporated in the gale of laughter bellowing from Gondar’s widespread lips.

‘So be it!’ He shouted. ‘If fight you I must, then so I shall. We sail for Kragg! Turn her north, my wolves. And pray to the All-Mother for my victory.’

Still chuckling, he turned away, calling for men to guide Raven and Spellbinder to the tiny cabin set below the raised stern. There, food and mulled wine was brought them, and dry clothing. After a while, their armour was returned, though the only weapons Gondar permitted them were the daggers and the throwing stars mounted like ornaments on Raven’s belt.

For two days they remained in the spartan room, the only outlook a tiny window set below the poop. On the third day they were summoned on deck and allowed to remain in the open until nightfall. That became the pattern for the remainder of the voyage, which took some seventeen days, each passing sunset bringing a colder night than the one before, until they needed cloaks to warm them when the sun’s rays died from the sky. They saw no other vessels, and the sea remained calm, Gondar maintaining an amused distance, though his eyes roved eagerly over Raven’s body whenever she appeared on the poop.

She used much of her time to learn from Spellbinder the history of Gondar’s sea-rievers.

They came, he told her, from the rocky island of Kragg, a sea-bound wilderness to the north of Worldheart. Too inhospitable to afford better than the meagrest of livings, the island had spawned a hardy, sea-faring race, cheerfully accustomed to attempting incredible voyages. Fisherfolk at first, they had gradually turned to rieving, cutting holds for themselves on the southern shores of ice-bound Quwhon and anywhere else that they could win a standing. Angered by their growing depredations, the grandfather of the present Altan had taken a great fleet out of Karhsaam to rid the world forever of the irksome islanders.

The Altan, Quez Z’yrfal, had perished with the bulk of his navy. The tattered remnants had struggled back to the east bearing horrendous tales of a massive sea-fight in which the free wolf-ships had smashed the great slave-galleys of Z’yrfal’s fleet.

The forces of Kragg were led by Gondar’s forebear, Utt the Beheader, and rumour had it that Utt had taken Z’yrfal’s skull himself, to mount as an ornament in his war-hall. Battle-maddened by his victory, Utt had attempted an invasion of Kharwhan. And met total defeat. He died in the struggle and the skull of the Quez Altan, Z’yrfal, had disappeared. The succession, by birth and by sword, had gone to Valand Uttson, the Beheader’s son. From Valand it passed to Goril, and from him to Gondar.

Now Gondar Lifebane reigned in Kragg, a warrior-king as ferocious as his ancestor, Utt, and just as ambitious of conquering the fabled riches of Kharwhan.

‘But what of the skull?’ Raven asked. ‘If we are to find Donwayne, we must first find the skull of Quez. Can these sea-wolves help us?’

Spellbinder smiled, a slow, secret grin. ‘Perhaps they can. Much will depend on the outcome of your combat. Win Gondar’s favour, and he might well lend us a wolf-boat or two to aid our search. I’ll do what I can to influence the outcome, though I’ve heard talk of some tame Sorcerer who works for Kragg, seeking the downfall of Kharwhan.’

Again Raven pressed him about the Ghost Isle, and again he refused to answer. It seemed as though he spun a web of words around her mind, tangling her thinking so that she was diverted from her original purpose, steered off into sidetracks leading away from her questions. It was impossible to argue with Spellbinder when he chose not to pursue the matter: as though he worked his strange powers upon her to avoid revealing his true background.

They reached Kragg before she could press the point to a conclusion.

They were on deck when the island showed, high and hulking through a grey miasma of sea-wrack. A wind blew cold and cutting from the north, and prisoners, like the crew, drew cloaks tight around against the biting chill. Kragg was a stone dropped into the Worldheart Sea, wind-washed pinnacles of granite rising up into cloud that hung like smoke above the tips of its ridges. Dark breaks showed in the lower rock, raging foam beating in futile anger against the eternal stone. It was a hard, hostile place, and Raven could understand how it might breed a hard, ferocious people. The wolf-ship turned its head directly between two proud-jutting points that left no more than a double boat’s-width between them, and Gondar himself called the stroke as they rushed madcap towards the cleft.

The oars dipped furiously, driving the wolf-boat at certain destruction, and Raven poised to leap outboard when they hit. But the snarling prow passed arrow-straight between the rocks, the oars lifting at the last possible moment to sneak narrowly between the guardians of the bay beyond. Once through the gap, they were in calmer water, and the oars dipped again to take them gentle-swift to a wide beach of black sand.

Men and women came running to meet them, and Gondar climbed the wolf-prow to raise his axe in greeting. As the vessel grounded on the sand, he sprang ashore, landing with a great shout that was quickly drowned by the babble of voices. Then, through the crowd, came a tiny man, dressed all in white, his shining pate yellow in the cold sun, his straggling beard a grubby blot against his tunic.

Raven and Spellbinder jumped to the shore in time to hear what he said.

‘How went it, Gondar? Is Kharwhan thrown down?’

‘No, Belthis.’ Gondar Lifebane shook his great head, staring into the black eyes of the mage. ‘The storm came up as you promised. It dispersed the mind-mist as you promised. Then it turned and blew against us, so that Crog’s boat went down under the fury of it and the rest of us ran like frightened sea-cows. Still,’ he turned, smiling, gesturing at Raven, ‘it brought me a prize I’d not otherwise have found. Even though I must yet win it.’

Belthis stared, but his gaze was not on Raven. His eyes, black coals in a pallid face, were fixed on Spellbinder, as though he saw a mortal enemy boasting before him.