Darkening Skies (The Hadrumal Crisis) (25 page)

‘Quite so.’ Planir nodded, exasperated.

‘By your leave, Archmage.’ Nolyen couldn’t restrain himself. ‘Why do Soluran wizards instill magic properties into artefacts?’

‘To leave their pupils some legacy of their wizardry,’ Troanna answered, disdainful. ‘Since their Orders come and go and they have no tradition of libraries or scholarship.’

‘Crafting such trinkets has always been the lesser Orders’ way of ingratiating themselves with the nobles who shower them with gold.’ Kalion spoke with equal scorn.

‘How do you suppose that arm ring ended up in the Archipelago?’ Rafrid was fascinated.

Kalion continued instructing Nolyen. ‘Magecrafting such a thing is no easy task. You would want the recipient to value it accordingly—’

‘Make it from precious metal and gems and anyone will value it, whether or not they know its true nature,’ Troanna interrupted, impatiently.

‘The Archipelagans have an eye for such trinkets to rival a pied crow’s.’ Planir observed. ‘That artefact could have passed through a hundred Aldabreshin hands. There wouldn’t be any mageborn among them to realise what they held.’

‘What will this Mandarkin do with it?’ Rafrid wondered.

‘He has a whole hoard of other such artefacts stowed in that house.’

Jilseth hadn’t meant to say that out loud. She looked down at her aching hands.

‘What precisely were you doing?’ Troanna asked icily, ‘when you turned our scrying into your seeking spell?’

‘Jilseth?’ Planir prompted. ‘What happened?’

Her mouth was dry as dust. ‘Forgive me, Archmage. I simply don’t know.’

He smiled. ‘I didn’t ask you to explain. Simply tell us what you sensed, with your affinity and in yourself.’

With everyone looking at her, if Jilseth had still had the most tenuous hold on her wizardry, she would have risked it all in an attempt to shift herself away. But she didn’t think she could take a step across the room without her knees giving way.

‘There will be answers for us to find,’ Rafrid assured her kindly.

Troanna looked down at the scrying bowl. ‘I am rather more concerned to know if the Mandarkin realises we’ve found him.’

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

Black Turtle Isle

In the domain of Nahik Jarir

H
OSH WONDERED WHICH
god he had offended. Talagrin reputedly had a cruel sense of humour. It was a truly a savage joke that Anskal was nowhere to be found now that Nifai and the ship masters had finally found their resolve and come back to the anchorage.

Or had Poldrion’s demons finally found a path through whatever Aldabreshin omens had been saving him from their claws? When the sunset marked the start of a new day by the topsy-turvy Aldabreshin reckoning, the stars of the Hoe would rise on the eastern horizon and the shifting heavenly jewels left nothing in the arc of Death but the stars of the Canthira Tree.

Imais had told Hosh that the plant epitomised the eternal, seasonal and unceasing circle of life and death, its seeds only sprouting after fires killed the parent tree. Did that mean Hosh should look forward to his own funeral pyre? The god of the dead was unrelenting, so chimney corner tales back home said, sending his minions in pursuit of anyone who should have already been ferried to the Otherworld. Surely Hosh should have been dead long since.

Except he reckoned it was Ducah who was most likely to kill him, not some taloned fiend from the Eldritch realm. The brute had got a new sword from somewhere, killing its former owner most likely. When he’d come to bellow from the path through the ironwood trees, yelling that the ship masters were ready to bargain for their freedom, the bare-chested raider looked more than ready to try testing whatever luck he’d read in some portent against whatever vile sorcery had saved Hosh.

Hosh did his best not to catch the fearsome man’s eye as he tried to appease the men assembled in the stone encircled hollow. He ducked his head, his expression as humble as he could possibly make it.

He had considered bringing the sword that Ducah had discarded before concluding that his first instincts were correct. Carrying a blade risked provoking a challenge. He was better served by humility and trusting in the arm ring. Even if the cursed thing had behaved so oddly the other day. Anskal hadn’t explained and Hosh doubted the wizard ever would.

‘The… visitor will be here shortly.’

Hosh wished he could have asked Imais how best to refer to Anskal. Was there some Aldabreshin form of words to show he was the Mandarkin’s most unwilling lackey?

Surely the rising stars of the Hoe promised reward for honest endeavour as long as the Diamond shone bright alongside the constellation? That should hold good for the next thirteen days, if Hosh’s reckoning was correct. The moons alone would continue their dance round the sky until the Diamond shifted into the arc of Death. Hosh guessed that the Archipelagans would want to be long gone from here before that particular portent.

He quaked with fear as he saw the ship masters exchanging looks of outrage. Had he somehow just insulted them? Or was Anskal’s absence the offence? Who could tell with these men maddened by hunger and fear?

Hosh could only rely on his arm ring to protect him if they attacked. And he had to keep them here. Something had put Anskal in a truly foul mood. If the corsairs’ nerve broke and they fled, Hosh wouldn’t wager goatshit against Tormalin gold on the Mandarkin not killing him outright. And he had no doubt that the wizard could kill him, arm ring or not.

Nifai stepped forward from the glowering huddle. The copper-skinned man glanced nervously from side to side, only to meet threatening glares from the other ship masters. That worried Hosh still more.

‘If there is one who would speak to us, let him come before us beneath the open skies.’

Nifai spat copiously on the bare earth.

Hosh hoped that Anskal wouldn’t take offence, if he had seen that apparent discourtesy through his spying magic, wherever the bastard was.

If he hadn’t, so much the better. Hosh didn’t relish the thought of explaining that even referring so obliquely to the wizard left a taint on Nifai’s tongue.

‘I take it that spittle means that our friends won’t accept refreshments on this visit?’ Anskal sounded amused.

How long had he been standing in the deep shadows under the shade trees ringing the hollow, before strolling out to stand behind Hosh? That must have been where he’d been. If the Mandarkin had simply appeared out of thin air, the raiders would have turned tail and fled.

For one awful moment he feared they still would, if Anskal stepped across the shallow ditch to set foot inside the circle. He breathed a little more easily when he realised the Mandarkin had no such intention.

‘No, they will not eat or drink anything that you offer them.’ Hosh stared down at the ground, his shoulders hunched. Hopefully the corsairs would see how reluctantly he served this mage.

Except, he realised, they weren’t looking at him at all. So Hosh could study them discreetly, his uncut hair hanging over his eyes.

The ship masters should have all looked ridiculous. Every man was armed and armoured as though for battle and then draped with all the pearls they had found in their plunder for talismans against magic. One thick-set and ebony-skinned man had a brass hand-claw bristling across his knuckles with delicate silver pearl-studded rings jammed onto his fingers beneath it.

But they didn’t look absurd. The ship masters looked as dangerous as a pack of feral dogs. Hosh had once seen Corrain and brave, murdered Captain Gefren whip such a pack from the manor’s gatehouse. Like those dogs, these ship masters might be cowed but given the sniff of a chance, they would rip out Anskal’s throat and Hosh’s too, for good measure.

None wore opals though. Then Hosh realised this night was the dark of the Greater Moon. What else might that mean by way of an omen?

‘Mainlander!’ Nifai snapped his fingers. ‘There is one here whom you say wishes to offer us a trade?’

‘They won’t talk to me today?’ Anskal was still more entertained. ‘Never mind.’ He waved a dismissive hand before Hosh could try to explain. ‘Are they willing to hand over their treasures? In return for me releasing their vessels?’

‘Are you willing—’

The corsairs were shouting their agreement before Hosh finished speaking, including those who barely spoke a word of the Tormalin tongue.

‘Very well,’ Anskal approved. ‘Tell them to follow me for proof of my good faith.’

He didn’t wait for Hosh to explain, heading down the path through the ironwood trees towards the beach.

Hosh waited in fearful suspense. Nifai was the first to step out of the circle, Ducah at his shoulder. The rest followed, slowly at first and then treading on each other’s heels as no one wanted to risk being left behind.

Anskal was waiting on the shoreline. As soon as half the ship masters had reached the top of the beach, he thrust out a hand towards the incessant wave.

More than half the Aldabreshi dropped to their knees, some wrapping their arms around their heads, faces pressed in the dirty sand.

Anskal’s laughter was lost in the deafening noise of the impossible wave collapsing against the sunset. Every island bird which the starving corsairs hadn’t managed to eat erupted from the fringe trees along the shore, screeching in panic. Hosh saw them tossed around by a swirling wind, as helpless as the feathered lures used to train Lord Halferan’s hawks.

The pent-up water surged out of the anchorage into the open sea beyond. The ships wallowed, masts flailing and oars slipping from their rowlocks to bob uselessly amid the roiling waters. One trireme which had been safely beached was dragged into the shallows to crash ominous into the skeletal blackened ribs of blind Grewa’s ship.

A foaming crest of water swept back in between the headlands, rearing up as the inlet narrowed. Some of the ship masters fled. Others, too terrified to move, froze where they were kneeling, pale sand smudging their ashen faces.

Two of the severely listing galleys were overwhelmed. The groans of the surviving vessels’ abused timbers mingled with the Archipelagans’ answering cries of distress.

The surge of water rose up the beach, only to retreat as the foam moistened Anskal’s leathery feet. The tide line was left freshly marked by a glistening slew of wreckage.

‘I have upheld my end of this bargain!’ Anskal’s voice echoed loudly around the anchorage. ‘You will not depart until you have done the same!’

The
Knot Serpent
’s master wasn’t listening. He was already splashing through the debris in the shallows.

A bolt of lightning from the cloud-streaked dusk sky struck the man’s shaven head. The ship master toppled forward, dead, into the water. The skin of his back was split and blackened like an overripe plum, revealing seared flesh and the creamy bones of his spine.

As Hosh tried to blink away the smear of yellow scarring his vision, someone screamed closer at hand. The
Scarlet Fern
’s ship master had drawn a dagger intent on murdering Anskal. The man dropped the blade, pressing his hands to his own throat instead.

A shard of ice was stuck deep in the side of the corsair’s neck. It was already melting in the Archipelagan heat, water glistening on the gurgling man’s hands. Bloody runnels slipped down his forearms, writhing like veins. Inside a breath more blood than water flowed to stain the man’s yellow tunic ochre. Unable to staunch the wound as the ice shrank away, the ship master died on a blood-choked curse.