Scimitar War (18 page)

He’d been drafting letters and reports all afternoon, but he was in high spirits; both the seamage and pyromage threats had been neutralized with little effort and not a single man lost. All that remained for him to do was to establish a permanent garrison, and Plume Isle was the perfect place for it. He would have the shipyard rebuilt, sturdy housing for troops constructed, and the keep remodeled as officers’ quarters; everything he needed to permanently secure the Shattered Isles. Not even the bothersome count could dim his good mood.

“How can I help you?” He smiled genuinely and waved at an empty chair, signaling his steward to refill his cup, and bring another cup and saucer. “I rather expected you to be aboard
Resolute
, bound for Tsing.”

“Actually, Admiral, I am here to propose how I might help
you
.” The count took the proffered chair, but declined the blackbrew.

“Really?” he said, instantly wary. Considering their past conflicts, Joslan was dubious.

“Yes, Admiral.”

“And how exactly do you propose to help me?”

“As I understand it, Admiral, your remaining task here is to secure the Shattered Isles, ensuring them safe for commercial and military traffic. Is that not so?”

“It is, Milord Count, and I’ve a sufficient military force to make it so.”

“No doubt, Admiral, no doubt at all. But there
are
risks.” Norris paused, his face grave. “To secure the islands, you must neutralize the cannibal threat. As you said yourself, any assault would be dangerous in the extreme. You don’t know the lay of the land, their deployment, fortifications or even their numbers. I believe there is a way I can give you all that information, and provide you with a significant force of experienced woodsmen.”

“You speak of the local natives, of course,” Joslan said. He squinted at the count and pursed his lips, wondering what the man was up to. “The ones I’ve spoken to are reluctant to aid us, though they
have
agreed not to hinder our operation, as long as I allow them to live here peacefully.” He raised an eyebrow and sipped his blackbrew. “Do you think you can reach a better agreement?”

“Not with the natives here, Admiral, but with the main tribe on Vulture Isle. I am, after all, the emperor’s ambassador. It is my job to negotiate with potential allies.”

“You propose to accompany Captain Donnely south?” The prospect had merit, especially considering Donnely’s temperament; the man tended to be rash in deed and action, and the count could provide a valuable calming influence in dealing with the natives. “I could assign you to the
Cape Storm
, certainly.”

“Actually, Admiral, I suggest a preliminary delegation. If I could speak with the village leaders
before
a warship is anchored off their shore, negotiations might progress more smoothly and more to your benefit. I know from my association with the natives here that their tribe has no love of the cannibals. They have been fighting an inconclusive war with them for years. They may be willing to help, if given the proper inducement. The carrot before the stick, as it were.”

“What kind of inducement?”

“Allow them to retain possession of Vulture Isle, with no military interference, as long as they remain peaceful and willing to work with the military personnel you station here.”

Joslan thought about the proposal. Such an alliance would reduce the risk of his operation, at little or no cost. “I think I can authorize such an agreement,” he said, “but I dislike the idea of sending you out without protection, Milord Count. There are, as you say, dangers.”

“The natives are well acquainted with the dangers between here and Vulture Isle, and a swift craft could evade most of them. My man Huffington is a…careful sort, and he knows two native men in particular who sailed with him from Tsing. I’m sure they’d be willing to accompany us.”

“You think to take
Flothrindel
!” Joslan said. He knew the count wouldn’t offer him assistance that didn’t also benefit his own goals. The man meant to rescue Lady Camilla from the cannibals, even though, by all accounts, she was likely already dead. He opened his mouth to deny the request out of hand, then reconsidered. Surely the count wouldn’t consider invading the cannibal island with only a couple of men, which meant that he would first secure an alliance with the friendly natives. But could he trust the count to keep his word and not run off on his own, as he had before? He needed some way to ensure Norris’ compliance.

“The craft can accommodate a few more,” he said. “For your safety, I will assign you a military contingent.”

“I understand your concerns, Admiral,” Norris started, but Joslan cut him off.

“My concerns are that the emperor’s ambassador remains safe in a hostile area. I will assign one officer and two marines. Any more than that and the smack would be overloaded.”

Norris smiled and bowed his head. “Thank you, Admiral. Their presence will be welcome.”

“Very well!” Joslan smiled and reached for pen and paper. “I’ll draft the order right now, and have Donnely assign capable men to your service. You can leave first thing in the morning.”

“With respect, Admiral, I suggest we leave as soon as may be. Within the hour if possible.” Joslan opened his mouth to protest, but the count raised his hand. “Please, Admiral, there is not a moment to lose. The
Cape Storm
is due to leave for Vulture Isle in the morning, and initial negotiations must be concluded before the presence of a warship douses the sincerity of our proposal. One must proffer the carrot
before
the stick looms overhead.”

Joslan scowled; he hated being dictated to, especially by this self-serving blueblood. But try as he might, he couldn’t find a hole in the man’s logic. He scratched a quick order to Captain Donnely. “Very well, Milord Count, I’ll have someone take this to Captain Donnely directly, and you can be off when all is ready.” He rang a small bell as he blew on the orders. A ship’s boy stood at his elbow before the ink was dry. He rolled the parchment, tied it with a bit of string and handed it to the lad. “Take this to Captain Donnely without delay. Will that suffice, Milord Count?”

“Yes, Admiral, thank you. That will suffice nicely. I’ll be ready to leave within the hour.”

The count stood, bowed and left with the boy.

“Ready to leave,” Joslan said to himself when the door was safely closed behind them, “and finally out of my hair!”

≈

A centipede trundled across the back of Tipos’ hand as he paused between two jutting roots of an ancient tree. A tree frog peeped a piercing cry next to his ear, invisible in the dark, just as he was. With deep, slow breaths, he scanned the living, breathing jungle, only muted starlight and the flashes of fireflies and glow worms aiding his sight. Shrouded in a blanket of living darkness, accepted as part of it, he knew he was safe, at least for the moment. The cacophony of frogs, birds and insects told him so. Here, silence was an alarm decrying the intruder. But Tipos was not an intruder; he was born to the jungle and it knew him. When the centipede had moved on, he eased forward, a shadow in the darkness, feeling with his toes before every step, brushing the leaves and branches with his fingertips only. In a snail’s pace dance, where a single misstep meant his life, he probed deeper into the territory of their deadliest enemies.

Spying on the cannibals was something that Tipos did very well. It was a rite of passage among his people. You did it well, or you didn’t return. Of course, they usually spied on the small tribe that made their home in the northeast highlands of Vulture Isle. This was unfamiliar territory, but the jungle was the same.

He was less than five long strides from the sentries when he spotted them. They were also part of the jungle, but they were paying more attention to the distant clamor descending from their village than their own surroundings. He veered around them. Killing them would have been easy, but that was not why he was here.

Finally, Tipos neared the village. Larger than the cannibals’ village on Vulture Isle, it was as big as his own. He lowered himself to the loamy jungle floor and crept closer, feeling every twig and leaf, inch by careful inch, keeping his eyes downcast lest they reflect the firelight and give him away. The drums and chanting grew so loud he felt his heart echo the beat. He positioned himself beyond a cluster of torches; anyone looking in his direction would be blinded by the flames, unable to see into the shadows beyond. He, however, had a perfect view, and what he saw left him staring in open-mouthed shock. For one moment, all his stealth and care were forgotten.

“Miss Camilla…” he whispered in despair. The sound of his own voice startled him out of his awe. He checked his surroundings, ensuring that no one else had heard, then turned his eyes back to the woman he had once known as Camilla.

She stood straight and tall in the torchlight, a pillar of flame with her crimson hair and dress. Her lips glistened against skin as pale as milk, her eyes twin splinters of obsidian. So beautiful, but there was something else there, too, a cold hunger thirsting for warmth. Smoldering power, and hunger…

The cannibals encircled her—young and old, men and women—the entire tribe. They knelt with their heads touching the earth, murmuring the vile mantra that was their religion: “Blood, flesh, life, death. Beating heart, warm breath. Blade stills heart. Blood flows. Heart’s power to the victor goes…”

On and on the chant went as Camilla turned a slow circle, her black eyes raking over the prostrate forms.
Are they bowing in worship or cowering in fear?
he wondered, noting how they kept their eyes down, as if trying to hide when her gaze passed over them, only daring to glance up when she turned away. Finally she raised one slim arm and her alabaster hand pointed.

“That one.” The voice was Camilla’s, yet not; harsher, more powerful, edged like a knife.

The chanting stopped.

The cannibals looked up to where she pointed, and as one they lunged to obey. Hands strong with relief overpowered the chosen one, a tall warrior with a broad scar on his chest. His thick arms strained against the unwelcome clutches of his brothers and sisters, but he could not break free. As they hauled him toward Camilla, horror sapped his strength and his struggles diminished. They forced him to his knees before her, wrenched his head back so that his wide eyes stared up into her pale, horrible, beautiful visage.

Camilla smiled and reached out to caress his face in a parody of affection.

The man shuddered at the touch, and a hopeless moan escaped his lips. Tipos felt himself shaking in sympathy at the man’s plight; this was no way to die. He might have met the warrior in battle and fought him to the death, but this was not battle. This was slaughter, a proud boar dragged to the butcher.

Camilla bent forward, cocking her head like a lover bending for a kiss. The flickering torchlight cast eerie shadows across her pale features. As her lips neared the victim’s exposed throat, Tipos saw her obsidian eyes gleam, and her red lips curl back and stretch impossibly wide to reveal a dreadful maw. Rows of black teeth glinted in the firelight before they were sheathed in the man’s flesh. The warrior spasmed, and his captors released him and backed away. He flailed and screamed out a gout of frothy blood, but his struggles were futile. Camilla clutched him tight and pulled him up as she straightened, her mouth locked onto his throat, her hands grasping his neck like a vice.

Finally the man went limp. Camilla slowly pulled back from the exsanguinated corpse, her face smeared with blood but once again beautiful. She dropped the body, and eager hands hauled it away. Several villagers brought forth a large bowl of water and held it before Camilla while she laved the stains from her hands and face.

Tipos stared as Camilla turned, strode to the far edge of the torchlight and lowered herself onto a horrific throne of human bones. Like a crimson queen she sat, her back ramrod straight, her pale hands resting on the ivory domes of two polished skulls. Without a doubt, there would be one more skull adorning the throne by morning.

Tipos turned away and made his way back into the depths of the jungle. He fought to maintain his stealth, when all he wanted to do was run. He had only half-believed the stories told by Dura and Shambata Daroo of the demon’s feeding. He swallowed hard on both his bile and his grief. After Paska, Camilla had been the one he dreamt about, her pale skin and red lips...From now on, though, he feared that her features would only haunt his nightmares.

Chapter 12

Deployments

Captain Donnely took a deep breath of salt air and gazed with satisfaction at the open ocean before him. He smiled at the welcome sense of freedom; once again he was master of his ship and all aboard her, with no admiral’s pennant looming over his head. The stifling confines of Scimitar Bay had worn his nerves thin. He was a man of action! The admiral’s decision to sit and wait for the seamage to arrive while men were being picked off by cannibals had infuriated him to no end. Now, finally, he had a chance to strike back.

Joslan had tasked him with assessing the cannibal threat, and that suited Donnely just fine. Count Norris had gone ahead to enlist the natives’ help, so hopefully negotiations would be concluded by the time
Cape Storm
arrived, and they could get right into action. He considered the admiral’s warning to keep an eye on the count and ensure that he acted in the empire’s interests, not his own, and huffed a short laugh. Joslan was being overcautious to the point of paranoia. Donnely had assigned an experienced young lieutenant and two capable marines to accompany the count; if anything was amiss, Donnely would know it upon his arrival.

Donnely looked toward the north.
Resolute
would be some two hundred miles away by now, the seamage secure in the brig. He shivered with a memory of the confrontation on the pier: such power… Even so, in his opinion, Joslan had acquiesced too quickly to the seamage’s demands, but it had ended well enough.

He watched the sails of the frigate
Bright Star
, in company with
Ice Drake
, diminishing to the north. They were bound for Middle Cay to investigate the report of pirates lairing there. To
Cape Storm’s
lee,
Iron Drake
cut a sharp line on her southerly course to investigate the supposed floating city, deep in the doldrums.

“Better you than me, Pendergast,” he muttered, “days upon days of sweeps with not a breath of wind…” The steady trade winds would whisk him to straight to Vulture Isle, and there was no sense dawdling.

“Let’s stretch her legs, Lieutenant Parks,” he said to his first officer. “Topgallants and stays’ls as she bears upwind. Shake the reefs on the tops’ls if she’ll take it.”