The Iron Ship (40 page)

Trassan stepped through into a steaming hell. Wreaths of vapour curled around everything. From this searing fog came the groans of the wounded. His feet plashed in an inch of scalding liquid, a slurry of blood, water and blanched flesh gurgled down the bilge drains.

The housing of the boiler had cracked, a great three-foot long rupture ran over the curve of the tank. Pipes had been flung loose. Some had shot out with the force of cannon shot, one denting the inner plating of the hull to the depth of two feet, tearing out the rivets around its perimeter. The whole thing was wrecked, and there was damage to one other engine. Carnage was all around. There were four slumped shapes in the fog, collections of rag and boiled meat that had once been men.

The slatted box surrounding the core was buckled. Through the gaps he saw that two of the sixteen rods were blackened sticks, wizened as charcoal. A trickle of water ran from the reservoir, hissing where it touched the core. He reached for the wheel to close it, then snatched his hand back. He plucked a pair of steaming, soaking gloves hanging from the engine and donned them. They sizzled on the metal as he turned the valve shut.

Something grabbed his shoulder.

“Help me.” A hoarse whisper. Trassan turned, and looked into Hannever’s face.

The man was dying. His flesh had been flash-cooked by the eruption. His skin hung off in flaccid rags, revealing muscle that was the white pink of perfectly done meat. His eyes had been poached white. Where his fingers touched Trassan, it left smears of fat. The skin broke at the contact, cooked flesh parting to showed gleaming white bone.

Hannever stumbled. Trassan caught him. Inside his clothes, a chunk of meat slithered off in Trassan’s hand.

Trassan lowered Hannever to the floor. “Stay with me, Hannever. Stay with me, help is coming!”

But Hannever was dead. The rich scent of boiled meat coated the back of his throat. He held up his gloved hands glistening with the juices of the dead man. His stomach spasmed. He vomited into the water lingering on the deck. His head spun with shock.

“What have I done?” he said. Ollens’ words came back to him. Vand’s pride. But it wasn’t Vand’s pride that had caused the disaster. Not entirely.

It had been his.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Rel and the Godling

“I
FAIL to
see,” shouted Rel, his voice muffled by the wire basket of his sparring mask, “how me fighting four opponents at once is fair!” He kicked out with one foot, pivoted on the other and twisted his hips. His boot landed squarely in the chest of Hankel Froond, a Suverend from Zhinsky’s command. The man folded over, the wind knocked from him.

Zhinsky stood at the edge of the training floor munching on an apple. Every so often he would shake his boots to dislodge the sand sprayed onto them by the sparring soldiers.

“You know why, little merchant boy! It is because there are three hundred and fifty-seven men of the Kingdoms here in the fort, and it could take five times that many. When you can beat five men easily, then I am knowing that the Glass Fort is well defended. This makes I, Zhalak Zhinsky, happy, and it make Colonel Estabanado happy. Sad for all, not so many men as good a fighter as my little merchant boy, so you need to be fighting...” He cocked his head to one side and calculated. “At least nine men, and beating them. Keep fighting!”

Rel stepped back, his practice sabre blurring in an arc to catch those of Veremond and another Maceriyan named Poussel simultaneously. His fourth opponent, Vormeen of Macer Lesser, took his chance as Rel strained against their blades and came at him from the side. Rel shoved Veremond and Poussel backwards, and backhanded the man across the face with the basket of his sword’s hilt so hard it caved the mesh of his mask in. The man shrieked and fell on his behind, blood pouring from his nose.

“Sorry!” shouted Rel. Froond was getting to his feet. Rel mimed a killing chop at the neck. Froon slapped the sand in frustration and hung his head.

“That’s one!” Rel shouted gleefully.

“Good good! I would watch your back, little merchant boy!”

“Let me handle this my own way!” said Rel. He parried two strikes from Poussel and Veremond, aimed a flick at Veremond’s head that had him duck back. He caught a riposte from Poussel, turned the blade and ran an upward slash along the inside of the man’s arm. Rel’s blunt training blade thumped into Poussel’s padded jerkin.

“Two!” he called, ducking Veremond’s return slash. A sweeping kick pushed the Perusian’s ankles together. He did not fall, but skipped back. Vormeen, shook blood from his hand and came on groggily. Rel spread his arms wide as if to say
Really?
, batted aside Vormeen’s half-hearted thrust. His own sabre bent in half as he lunged and thrust it with bruising force into Vormeen’s sternum, knocking him back onto his behind. “Three!”

“Ha!” Zhinsky clapped. “He will have big love mark there, little merchant’s boy.”

“I keep saying,” said Rel through gritted teeth, “my father is not a merchant.”

Rel fought flawlessly. He and Veremond traded blows, a parry for every strike.

“You are toying with him! Finish him, finish him now!” shouted Zhinsky.

“It’s not as if I’m not trying!” complained Rel. He feinted, stepped aside, and delivered a high, overhand downward thrust as Veremond stumbled toward where he had been.

Veremond rubbed at the scratch on his neck. “Four!”

“Maybe you not quite so useless after all,” Zhinsky said. “The rest of you, yes, all of you. You are needing to be getting better. Shame on you.”

Rel tore off his mask and dropped it. He saluted with his sword and exchanged it for a towel. Sweat ran off his face in a sheet. He screwed up his eyes and sponged them down.

“Damn stuff stings.”

“Such a complainer. Not befitting a master swordsman.”

“Master?”

“Well, you are not bad.” Zhinsky threw his apple core over his shoulder. “Gudrun here says many good things about you.” He waved at the master-at-arms, a bald-headed, thickset man who looked like he could not possibly have been anything else but a warrior. He leaned against one of the training posts set back from the training floor.

“Father made us all practise sword, grappling, various armed combats, all the arts of defence. He told us that a true nobleman should know how to fight, even though most of them don’t. My brother Garten is the fifth best fencer in Karsa.”

“Oh very good. And you?”

“Twelfth, as it happens.”

“Not so good then.”

“On the contrary. I am getting better. Garten’s past his prime. I am better than Garten was when he was my age.”

Zhinsky pursed his lips. “Very good merchant boy. I am impressed.”

“Good. Can I sit down now?”

“No! Not yet,” said Zhinsky, wagging a finger. “Little merchant boy wants to sit? Now?” he said, mumming wide-eyed surprise so effectively a laugh went up from the men in the salle. “I am interested to see, how with fancy fencing will you beat this?” He pointed a finger past Rel, grinning wickedly.

Rel turned around. The floor was empty of opponents. A boy resanded it from bucket while a second hurriedly raked it flat.

Zhinsky was pointing at the gate beyond the floor.

“What?” said Rel.

“You see.”

The gate slid upward, unnervingly noiseless in the Morfaan way. The corridor was dark behind it.

The most enormous man Rel had ever seen stepped through, his grin matching Zhinsky’s. The corridor had not been dark, the man was so large he had blocked out all the light.

“Merchant boy, meet Halvok. He is a Torosan. You ever see a Torosan before?”

Rel shook his head, dumbstruck. “Yes. Once or twice. There are three here.”

“Four,” said Halvok.

“But you have never seen one like him, eh? Halvok is nine and a half feet tall. Prodigiously tall! Have you ever fought one?”

“With all due respect, major, are you fucking joking? No! I have not fought one, as evidenced by the fact that I am stood here before you and not dead in a hole in the ground.”

“That’s fine. I am sure Halvok is not offended, is that not so?”

“No problem to me boss,” Halvok said. His Low Maceriyan was surprisingly pure, though his voice was deeper than thunder. “Not many of my sort around. Too big, you see. We need a lot of space. I had an uncle go Karsa way once. Came back. Didn’t like it. No offence meant, Captain Kressind, sir.”

“None taken,” said Rel quietly.

Halvok grinned. He stepped into the duelling square. He undid his uniform jacket and slipped it off, revealing a meaty geography of muscular slabs on a chest the size of Ruthnia itself. Ridged muscles covered his arms in the same manner mountains cover continents. “How you at wrestling, sir?” said the Torosan.

“You really want me to fight him?” said Rel, an unwelcome squeak entering his voice. He coughed.

“Oh, I want everyone to fight Corporal Halvok. Is that not so, Halvok?”

“Aye major. You and Colonel Estabanado.”

“I think we should explain to Captain Little Merchant why.” Zhinsky conjured a second apple from a pocket and took a bite.

Halvok smiled affably at Rel. “See sir, there’s a lot worse than me out there in the desert, so they says anyways. Big things, mean too. Modalmen and that. Fighting me is good practice, and I ain’t so big as a modal.”

“Don’t you mind being the punching bag for the garrison?”

Halvok laughed. “Nah sir. I like the work out. And we take it in turns, me and Moris, Fleki and Borid.”

“The other Torosans,” said Zhinsky. He crammed another bite of apple into his mouth. “You not see Halvok because he and his fellows are often out with Jakkar.”

“That’s right sir,” said Halvok. “We’re just back from a stint in the south checking the obelisks that way. Got too cold, sir.”

“If there are three more like him, I think the rest of us can retire and go home, don’t you?” said Rel.

Zhinsky grinned around his apple and shook his head.

“You really do want me to fight him?”

“The big advantage to you, Captain Kressind,” said Zhinsky, “is that Halvok here is a very nice man. He will not kill you. I cannot speak the same for the modalmen.”

Halvok gave a gleeful look. “Pull your guts right out of your arse while you’re still kicking, sir.” He let a serving boy powder his hands. He slapped them together, whip-crack loud, sending puffs of chalk outwards. “If you’d like to begin sir?”

Rel took a step forward, then a step back. He rolled his eyes, made up his mind and stepped into the square. He took off his padded jacket and his shirt. “I won’t be needing them, I suppose.” He felt tiny next to the Torosan.

“You know, they call them godlings. Did you know that? It is because they are so big!” Zhinsky laughed wildly. “No captain,” he said, when Rel moved to wave away the boy offering him back his practice sword. “You take that.”

“Can I at least have a more suitable weapon?”

Zhinsky cocked his head in query. “You suggest?”

“A lance, a full suit of armour and a battle-hungry dracon? Get me my gun! That would make it fair.”

“How about a training club?” Zhinsky twitched a finger. A boy ran to Rel with a single piece of wood fashioned into a shaft three feet long with a smooth, thick head. Rel hefted it.

“That might do.”

“Do not worry about hurting Halvok.”

“Do you know, major, I wasn’t.”

Zhinsky clapped his hands twice. “Begin!”

Rel circled the Torosan warily. He had never fought anything so large. They were a rarity in Karsa. The truth of Halvok’s size outdid all rumour. Halvok crouched, he swung his arms lightly out and chuckled deeply.

Rel swished the club experimentally. Halvok’s legs were long enough to have him over the circle in three bounds. Staying out of reach was not an option.

Rel dove at the giant, drawing out a grasping lunge from him. He sidestepped to the left, then swung the club out in a long loop at Halvok’s right knee. He had hoped that Halvok would be slow. He was disappointed. The giant’s arm shot out, deflecting the club easily.

“Nice try, sir,” said Halvok.

“Thanks,” said Rel.

Halvok lunged at him. Rel stepped aside, and knocked the giant hard on the back of the head. He might as well have been tapping stone.

“You will have to try harder than that!” shouted Zhinsky.

Rel breathed through his teeth. He ran at the Torosan. Halvok reached for him. Rel ducked, dropped the club, and grabbed at the Torosan’s wrists. Rel swung off them, bringing his feet hard into contact with Halvok’s stones.

The air whooshed out of Halvok’s lips. His knees buckled inward, and Halvok leaned forward.

“Oooooh,” he said.

“Oh! He is a dirty fighter!” shouted Zhinsky. Many of the others training in the room had drifted over to watch. Muted comments were becoming shouts. Wagers were being taken.

Rel scrabbled through Halvok’s legs. The giant had one hand clasped at his bruised genitals, but with the other he grabbed at Rel’s feet. Rel kicked hard, spraying sand into Halvok’s eyes. The giant blinked and shook his head. Rel scrambled to his feet behind Halvok. He turned round, grabbed the giant’s belt, and hauled himself up onto his back, kicking off on the Torosan’s waistband.

Rel looped one arm around Halvok’s neck. The giant lifted his hands over his back, slapping at Rel. At so awkward an angle, the blows lacked their full power. Any harder and his ribs would have shattered, as it was the blows were punishing and drove the wind from his lungs.

With his free hand he unhooked his scabbarded sword from his belt, slid it under the giant’s chin. Bracing himself against Halvok’s back with his knees, he leaned backward, throttling the Torosan with the sheathed weapon.

Zhinsky leaned forward, rapt.

Halvok grabbed at Rel, half hauling him off his back, but that only increased the pressure at his throat. Giant fingers raked across Rel’s ribs and spine. Rel gritted his teeth and held on.

Halvok’s face turned purple. His hands moved to the sword, trying to pull it from his neck. Rel would not let go.

“Yield!” he said.