Red Tide (59 page)

Or at least that was the theory.

It hadn't worked that way on the road to Kerin, all those years ago. It had been Amerel's first mission as a Guardian, and she'd been hunting bandits with her then master, Colat. But it had been the bandits who had surprised
them
just as the Guardians were setting up camp. For years Amerel had trained for that moment. Nothing could have prepared her, though, for a dozen screaming savages set on shedding her blood. When the arrows started falling about, she had frozen. She would have died, too, if that missile had found her flesh instead of tangling in her hair.

Looking back now, it was hard to remember how she had felt. Hard to remember anything of the fight that followed, except for the face of the first man she'd killed—the first man she'd ever killed. Or maybe “boy” was a more accurate description. He'd been younger even than she was, with a face wasted from hunger, and all screwed up with the same fear she had felt. She'd tried to disarm him rather than kill him, but somehow she'd run him through anyway. Afterward, by the fire, her hands had shaken so badly she'd spilled the cup of tea Colat passed her. There had been a hint of disapproval in her master's eyes. But then it had all been so simple for him. The bandits attacked, he killed them, end of story. He'd told her the killing would get easier in time, as if “getting easier” were a thing to be prized. And he was right, of course; it
had
gotten easier. Everything did with practice.

He would be proud of her now, Amerel reckoned.

“Two ships coming about!” called a lookout in the rigging.

Tattoo had been standing with the quartermaster by the ship's wheel, but now he shimmied like a chitter monkey up the mainmast to the maintop. He trained a telescope on the northern horizon.

Galantas emerged from the captain's cabin holding a glass of brandy. Seemed a bit early for that. Maybe like Amerel, though, he hadn't been able to sleep last night.

“Two ships, right enough,” Tattoo shouted down. “Both shortening sails. And that ain't the only problem we got. We're close to the Rent.”

“How close?” Galantas asked.

“Stone-skin ships are hanging over it.”

Amerel could see the Rent, now she was looking for it—a darker tinge to the water like the shadow of some monstrous creature lurking in the deep. Not a good place for an engagement, but if she had her way, that would be the stone-skins' problem, not hers. She strode up to Galantas. “Hold your course,” she said in a low voice.

He rounded on her. “Back in the Isles, you said there'd be no fighting. You said we'd turn when the stone-skins did.”

“When their
fleet
turned, yes, not two ships. How does two ships turning help us if the rest sail on? We need to prove ourselves worthy of the stone-skins' full attention.”

“By defeating those two ships?”

Amerel nodded.

“And how are we going to do that? If we were seven ships instead of three—”

“Leave the stone-skins to me.”

He snorted. “As easy as that?”

“Yes.”

Galantas studied her. “How?”

“You'll see.”

“How?”

“Sorcery.”

“You're a water-mage?”

Amerel nodded. Anything to shut him up. She couldn't tell him about the glass globes, obviously, in case he'd heard of Erin Elal using them before. “I can destroy both ships, but I need them closer. Turn the
Fury
about if you must, but hold your ground. If I fail, there'll still be time to run.”

“Assuming Barnick can outdistance them.”

“If he can't, we're dead anyway.”

“Captain!” Tattoo shouted. “Enemy are hull down and closing!”

Galantas looked toward the approaching ships, then back at the two distant Rubyholt vessels and the empty horizon where the other four should be. He was loath to flee, Amerel knew. He didn't need telling how his opponents would greet the news that he'd run at the first whiff of trouble. Still, it couldn't hurt to remind him.

“If you turn tail,” she said, “what will you have achieved save to prove your doubters right? Where are the dragons you said would destroy the stone-skins? Where's the vengeance you promised?”

Galantas scowled and tossed his glass over the rail. His color was high, and he was breathing hard against the effect of the demon figurehead's voice. Maybe soon the devilship's bloodlust would override his instinct to bolt, but not yet. He glanced south again, as if the missing Rubyholt vessels might have appeared in the last few heartbeats. Then he looked back at Amerel. She could guess what he was thinking. He'd be wondering how a water-mage—as she claimed to be—could destroy two enemy ships that were each protected by their own water-mage. But he
wanted
to believe her. She used her Will to play on his indecision.

“I'd ask you to trust me,” she said, “but I'm not sure I could do it with a straight face. Just trust that I have no more wish to die here than you do.”

Tattoo descended to the deck. “Captain?” he said.

Galantas ignored him. He closed his eyes. Amerel watched him. Any more waiting around, and the stone-skins would make his decision for him, but that worked for her. Galantas rubbed a hand across his face.

When his eyes opened again, there was a new resolve in them.

He nodded to Amerel.

She turned and strode away before he could change his mind.

Noon appeared in the companionway, his eyes heavy with sleep. The sight of the stone-skin ships roused him, though. Amerel motioned for him to join her as she made her way toward the bow.

“Don't you ever sleep?” he said as he fell into step.

“Just heading below now.” She gestured to the Augerans. “You can deal with this lot, can't you?”

Noon shot her a look. “You could tan leather with that sense of humor of yours.”

The wave of water-magic carrying the
Fury
subsided. Galantas shouted orders to the crew: to ready weapons, to mop the boards stained by blayfire oil—again, to run out flags to signal for help from the other Rubyholt ships. At first his commands were met with sullen silence, but Tattoo backhanded one man, and the others moved grumbling to their tasks. What else could they do? Mutiny? The only way they'd escape the stone-skins was with Barnick's help, and for now the water-mage remained in Galantas's corner.

By the time Amerel reached the starboard cathead, she could make out the two stone-skin ships approaching, side by side on their waves of water-magic. The first was of a size to the
Fury.
The second was bigger still—a fortress with four masts so tall they seemed to scrape the sky. The decks of both ships were heaving with soldiers, and yet more men—archers?—were climbing the rigging to the tops. It didn't look like they intended a polite inquiry as to why the
Fury
's course coincided with theirs. The larger ship had a catapult on its forecastle, but as yet the stone-skins hadn't loaded it. Perhaps they wanted to take the devilship intact. The
Fury
must certainly have looked an easy prize, undermanned and lolling on the swell.

“What are you thinking?” Noon asked Amerel.

“I'm thinking those ships are a little closer together than is good for them.”

The Breaker smiled. “Water?” he said, reaching into his belt-pouch for one of the globes of sorcery.

“Water,” she agreed. She'd told Galantas she was a water-mage, after all.

“How do you want to play it? The globe won't smash if we throw it in the sea, but if we wait till the stone-skins get close—”

“We're not waiting,” Amerel cut in, holding out a hand.

Noon placed the globe in it.

The rustle of water grew louder as the ships drew near. The ominous beat of drums started up within their bellies, and the
Fury
's keening went up in pitch as if the devilship was giving answer to the enemy's challenge. Amerel looked across at the figurehead. It resembled the demon hacked into the Rubyholt cliff, but its fierceness was diminished by the apple someone had stuffed in its mouth like it was a pig dressed for the spit. If that person had hoped the apple would blunt its voice, though, they would be disappointed. Any louder, and the thing might shatter the glass globe in Amerel's palm.

And she didn't want that.

She studied the globe. Inside, a blue mist swirled. She'd heard it said that these sorcerous missiles hit as hard as a falling mountain, and she could well believe it, judging by the deep reservoir of power within. So much power, in fact, it was a wonder anyone had managed to cage it in a fragile glass shell. How best to use it, though? If she tossed it down the companionway of a stone-skin ship, the magic unleashed would rip the vessel apart. But why settle for just one ship when there was a chance she could take out both?

Wrapping her Will around the globe, she carried it speeding over the waves toward the onrushing ships. She lost sight of it against the blue, but her Will-sense was as good as her eyes for tracking its passage. The stone-skin vessels had halved the distance to the
Fury.
On their waves of water-magic, they reared high above the devilship. Amerel could now make out the images on their colored sails. The mainsail of the smaller ship showed a denkrakil rising from the waves, while the sails of the larger craft were like the panels of a tapestry depicting the events of some notable's life. It seemed an outrageous extravagance on a working ship. And the Guardian wasn't even the one who'd have to repair the sails if they got torn.

From behind her came the clatter of weapons, Tattoo's bellowed orders, the pounding of feet. Amerel turned to see the
Fury
's crew lining up along the rails in readiness for battle. Pincushion—the man she'd met in Bezzle—shook his sword at the stone-skins like he thought that might scare them into retreating. Another Islander appeared intent on matching the devilship's shriek. The crew's blood was clearly up, but passion alone wouldn't make up for their lack of numbers. If Amerel's plan failed, they would need the help of their kinsmen on the other two Rubyholt ships to stand even a chance of escaping.

She swung her gaze south. Earlier, the closest Rubyholt vessel had been much nearer to the
Fury
than the two stone-skin craft, yet now with the threat of battle imminent, its progress had slowed. She hadn't thought it was possible to retreat while at the same time moving forward, but the ship's captain was giving it his best shot.

The volume of the devilship's cry rose yet further.

“Anyone got an ax?” Noon said.

The glass globe drew level with the stone-skin ships—a thousand armspans away now, at the edge of the Rent. And just in time, too, for the vessels had started to draw apart, their captains no doubt intending to attack the devilship from both sides. Amerel positioned the globe midway between the ships and an armspan above the waves.

She gripped the rail. “Brace yourself,” she said to Noon.

A flick of her Will shattered the globe.

There was a ripping sound, then a roar like an avalanche. The sea between the stone-skin ships erupted, lifting the vessels, tipping and tossing them, pounding their hulls. The larger craft was slapped on its side; the smaller one was hurled clear of the swell and half spun about to come down with a splintering crack of shattered masts. Onboard, the stone-skins were flung about like dolls to fall screaming amid the crashing waves. The blast threw up geysers of spray, and the water seemed to hang in the sky before it came sheeting down on the stricken ships, smothering them in a torrent of gray.

Spray fell on the
Fury
's boards too, filling Amerel's eyes and open mouth, and tasting of salt and sorcery. She'd thought she had detonated the globe at a safe distance, but perhaps she was mistaken, for through the deluge she saw a wave bearing down on her, as tall as the
Fury
's bowsprit. Galantas shouted to Barnick, and the breaker began to recede, yet still when it reached the devilship it lifted the vessel so sharply it made Amerel's stomach churn. Another wave arrived just as the ship came down, and it hit the bow like a hammer striking an anvil. The deck pitched. Cries sounded from the crew. A third wave rolled toward them, then another, but all the while Barnick was working to soothe the seas, and the waves started to settle.

Amerel's hands were like claws on the rail. She was so wet she might have been dunked in a barrel. Water spattered down onto the
Fury
's deck from the sodden sails and rigging. The boards were covered in puddles that stretched first one way then the other as the ship rocked. Beside Amerel, Noon coughed like someone had just given him the kiss of life. The crew were silent, but the demon figurehead continued to keen.

A mist of spray hung over the waves. To the north, where the globe had smashed, the sea heaved and bucked like an unbroken colt. The water was covered by mexin grains and splinters of wood, but the stone-skin ships themselves were gone. The sail with the denkrakil on it was spread across the waves like a shroud. Amid the debris bobbed dozens of motionless bodies. Only a handful of stone-skins had survived the sorcerous blast. Of these, most clung to pieces of wreckage, but some swam north in the direction of their distant fleet, evidently ignorant of the perils of the Rent beneath them. Because as Amerel knew, not even the strongest swimmer could resist the tug of the darkness.

The dead went first, dragged down into the depths. The living went moments after, kicking and shrieking and still clinging to the scraps of wood they held. Only two of the swimmers stayed afloat—the water-mages from the sunken ships, presumably—though even they appeared to be struggling. The dash north must have taxed them beyond the limits of their powers. After a while, they gave despairing cries and vanished from sight.