Scimitar War (22 page)

Emil’s vision began to blur, then something thrust between his face and the demon’s. An unearthly shriek shivered the air, and he felt his face spattered with a thick, burning liquid. The tendril fell away, the grip on his arm loosed, and Camilla thrashed backward, arching and writhing in his grasp. The black tendril still protruded from her mouth, but now it whipped about in an effort to dislodge the poison-laden arrow that Tim had thrust through it.

“Father!” Tim shouted, and Emil released Camilla, allowing Tim to pull him away. Together they stood staring as the woman they loved thrashed on the ground.

“Dear Gods,” Emil muttered, resisting the urge to go to her. She writhed and screamed, but there was no way for him to relieve her suffering. Then he noticed his sword lying on the ground and realized that there was indeed a way for him to end her pain. He snatched up the blade, the bronze hilt cold in his hand. With a single stroke he could end Camilla’s torment, and send her soul to rest in peace. He gripped the weapon with both hands and raised it high, tears stinging his eyes. He blinked hard to clear his vision, and prepared for the final blow.

“Father, wait! Look!” Tim grasped his arm and pointed. Emil blinked again, and stared in shock.

The disgusting black tendril flopped on the ground, its struggles weakening, unable to dislodge the arrow that transfixed it. Black ichor oozed from the wound, and the arrow’s wooden shaft smoldered. The demon’s teeth clacked futilely against the hardwood, but they were made to rend flesh, and could not snap it. Camilla’s pale hand feebly grasped the black tendril as if to wrench it out.

“The poison’s working!” Emil said excitedly. He cast about, but Tim was ahead of him. The boy wrenched the second arrow free of the sacrifice’s corpse and held it out to his father, who snatched it and turned back to Camilla. The demon’s tendril still writhed, and the arrow shaft was nearly eaten through by its caustic blood. Emil smashed one booted foot down on the wriggling thing, then jammed the arrow into it, working the poisoned tip deep into the black flesh. It wriggled fiercely, and Camilla’s torso arched and bucked, but Emil kept his foot firmly planted, twisting the tip of the arrow deeper.

Suddenly, both the demon’s tendril and Camilla stopped struggling. She lay so still, her face so pale, that Emil feared she was dead. The black demon flesh began to shrivel, withering and melting into a mass of viscous goo.

Tim grimaced at the noisome black mass that flowed out of Camilla’s mouth. He dropped to one knee beside her. He reached out to touch her, then looked up at his father, his eyes bright with tears. “I don’t think she’s breathing.”

Emil collapsed to his knees beside her, and cautiously placed a hand to her neck. Her skin was cool, but he felt a faint tremor under his fingertips. Her heart yet beat, but it was very fast and very weak.

“She’s alive, but I don’t know…if she’s not breathing…” Emil took a breath, stifling a sob.

“Roll her onto her stomach, Father! There may be a way to get her breathing.”

“What?” he asked, even as he helped shift Camilla into a prone position. “How?”

“Captain Feldrin told me how they do this to sailors who fall overboard.” He straddled her legs and pushed hard on her lower back: once, twice. With the third push, a torrent of vile fluid issued from her mouth and spread across the dirt beneath her cheek. “Hold her head, Father. Don’t let her choke.”

Emil complied, and Tim pressed again, harder. More viscous fluid spilled forth, and Camilla’s back heaved reflexively. She coughed, dragged a ragged breath into her lungs, and coughed again.

“By the Gods, she’s alive!” Emil cried. Tim moved, and they rolled her onto her side. Emil gently lifted her head and cradled it in his lap. He used his sleeve to wipe the blood, bile, and gore from her face. Her features were pale and still, but peaceful and as beautiful as he remembered.

≈

Captain Donnely gazed around in satisfaction. Though he had had doubts in the beginning, the action had progressed quite nicely. The attacking troops had suffered only a handful of casualties, while the cannibals’ scarred and tattooed bodies littered the clearing. Some had fled into the jungle, and a few pockets of resistance remained, but those were being quickly overwhelmed by his marines and the Vulture Isle warriors. He had to hand it to these natives; they were grand fighters, and he had to admit that he couldn’t have done it without the pact negotiated by Count Norris. One more glance at the carnage-littered clearing, however, brought Donnely’s blood to a sudden boil.

“Count Norris!” he roared as he strode, bloody cutlass in hand, toward where Norris sat holding the body of the unfortunate Lady Camilla. “I
told
you that under no circumstances were you to participate in this engagement! What in the Nine Hells are you doing here?”

Norris looked up, and Donnely was startled to see tears running unchecked down the man’s cheeks. The captain swallowed his ire, realizing the man’s loss. He reined in his temper and considered his next remark carefully.

“Milord,” he addressed the count formally, “I apologize for my outburst. I’m sorry that we were unable to save the lady. You have my condolences.”

But Norris smiled up at him. “She’s alive, Captain. The cannibals were about to sacrifice her when your valiant attack stayed their hands, but I believe they may have poisoned her with some foul concoction. She’s alive, but very sick, and remains senseless.”

Donnely was about to protest that he knew a corpse when he saw one, when he noted the lady’s chest rise ever so slightly, then fall again.

“So I see.” He wiped his cutlass on a kerchief and snapped it into his scabbard, surprise, relief and anger all playing havoc with his practiced military poise. “I’ll assign a detail to carry the lady down to the beach where the healer can look at her.” He waved forward four brawny marines carrying one of the litters they had prepared before the battle.

“Thank you, Captain,” the count said as he rose from the mire of blood and filth and let the marines move Camilla onto the litter. The count’s son gripped his father’s shoulder, and they shared a weary smile, then trailed after the litter.

Donnely glanced at the unconscious woman as they carried her past. Her face was pale as death, and he remembered the boat boy’s claim. He smiled wryly, chalking up the wild story to pre-battle jitters. Lady Camilla didn’t look fit to eat soup, much less a person.

Chapter 15

Fires in the Night

Eight bells sounded on the stroke of midnight, and Captain Pendergast stepped onto the deck of
Iron Drake
. Men scurried past one another as the watch changed, the topmen ascending and descending the ratlines in the age-old ballet of maritime tradition. The crew seemed particularly subdued tonight; only quiet mutters floated on the still night air instead of the usual jovial exchanges, but that was to be expected. Seamen were a superstitious lot, and sailing into the Sea of Lost Ships had them on edge.

Pendergast clicked his golden pocket watch closed and mounted the stair to the quarterdeck, saluting the officer of the watch when his boots touched the top step.

“Good evening, Mister Jundis. All’s well, I trust.”

“Well enough, sir, but the wind’s going light and variable. I’ve bent every sail we’ve got, sir, and even rigged spritsails, but we’re still making only five knots.”

“Very good, Lieutenant. We’ll probably have to go to sweeps by morning, but we’ll let her ghost along for now. We’re coming into the doldrums sooner than I expected.”

“Yes, sir.” Jundis gestured forward, indicating the dim glow of the forward deck lanterns. “There’s a light mist on the water. Visibility is probably less than a mile, though it’s hard to tell. I’ve posted additional lookouts. Nothing else to report, sir.”

“Nothing is just what I expected. Not many ships venture south of the Fathomless Reaches, and according to Captain Brelak’s information, we won’t sight Akrotia for another week. Very well. My watch, Lieutenant. Get some rack time.”

“Thank you, sir.” Jundis saluted. “I stand relieved. Goodnight, sir.”

“Goodnight, Mister Jundis.” Pendergast walked a slow circuit of the entire deck, as was his habit at the beginning of a watch. His walk brought no surprises. Everything was shipshape.

As a naval ship ought to be,
he thought, knotting his fingers behind his back and allowing himself a satisfied smile.

Pendergast returned to the quarterdeck and pulled his viewing glass from its case at his belt. Squinting into the eyepiece, he turned a slow circle to scan the horizon. His observations yielded even less information than his circuit of the deck, since sky and sea blended seamlessly. Dim stars twinkled overhead, but faded at the horizon, their light rendered wan by the mist. Pendergast usually enjoyed the night watch—cool air, peace and quiet, and the lovely sparkles of phosphorescence in the water—and tried to instill the same enthusiasm in his young ensigns. Often, he would summon the entire cadre up from their bunks to conduct contests of who could name the most stars. But tonight for some reason he was discomforted; with no land in sight, few stars and no horizon, it felt as if the ship was sailing in limbo.

He sighed, stowed his glass and sent word for his steward to send up blackbrew; he would need the drink’s stimulation to keep him alert for the next four hours. While he waited, he checked the ship’s heading, sail trim, and speed. He even plotted a dead-reckoned position and calculated the set of the current from their last known fix. Everything was normal, but still, he was restless, unable to settle into his usual routine.

“Here ye are, Captain, sir,” his steward said, climbing the stairs to the quarterdeck with the silver blackbrew service balanced in his hands. “Yer blackbrew, and I put biscuits and butter on the plate for ye.”

“Very good. Thank you, Billings.” He poured a cup, added sugar and buttered a biscuit. The butter was near liquid, and the biscuit as hard as granite, but he gnawed off a corner and chased it with a steaming sip from his cup. “Go on, Billings, get some rest.”

“Aye, sir.”

Pendergast strode the quarterdeck, sipping his blackbrew and gnawing his biscuit. He thought he saw a dim light moving in the misty darkness, and he peered intently. Nothing.
Wonderful!
he chided himself.
Now I’m hallucinating
.

He contemplated the bleak night, his bleak assignment and his bleak career.
Cape Storm
had been sent to hunt cannibals, and
Bright Star
and
Ice Drake
were off to rout out pirates.
Iron Drake
, meanwhile, was tasked with sailing to the middle of nowhere to look at a floating city. “Observe but do not engage” had been the admiral’s words. It seemed as if every mission he was sent on was to observe but not engage, which gave him little opportunity to show his qualities as a naval officer. There had been no war for more than a decade, and thus no means for a young officer to distinguish himself in battle. He had a good record, but unless he wanted to retire still ranked as a junior captain, he
needed
to distinguish himself. And now these damned mists, waning wind and nothing to look forward to but days of rowing.

The captain sighed and looked out into the darkness. He took another bite of his biscuit and detected the bitterness of a weevil. Grimacing, he raised his arm to cast the offensive biscuit over the taffrail, when something caught his eye. A flash of golden light in the darkness; he had not imagined this one.

“Lookout there! Eyes aft! What’s that light?”

“Aye, sir. Looks like a ruddy great firefly ta me, sir.” The voice of the lookout sounded a little sheepish. “I seen it a few times now, but I di’n’t think much of it.”

Pendergast opened his mouth to rebuke the man—fireflies out here?—but then thought better of it. He’d thought he’d seen a light only moments before, and had dismissed it as illusory. Besides, he’d seen stranger things than fireflies out on the open ocean. Still, this was strange enough to be alarming, especially since they were searching for a floating city enchanted by a firemage. Pendergast didn’t believe in coincidence.

“All hands! Keep a sharp lookout for lights of any type! Sing out if you—”

“There!” the foremast topman called. “To starboard. It’s like a faerie light!”

Pendergast looked and saw it, a streak of yellow in the mist. It passed outside the mizzen mast shrouds, then turned and flew right at him. The captain started to duck, but the light stopped a mere three feet away, and his mouth dropped open in surprise. It was a woman! A tiny naked woman with skin like burnished copper and wings like smoldering gossamer. And her hair was aflame, a real blazing fire. The flames of her hair danced in the breeze, and Pendergast realized what would happen if her fire touched the tarred-hemp ratlines, or, gods forbid, a sail.

He gripped his sword and slowly drew the weapon from its sheath, trying not to startle the inquisitive creature. If he was quick enough, he could end the threat with one stroke. But the little beauty just wagged a finger at him, blew him a kiss and flew away, her mischievous giggle floating on the wind.

“All hands on deck!” he called as he sheathed his sword. “Fire crews to your stations! Buckets and pots, anything that will hold water! All topmen aloft! Launch the boats and trail them in a line.” The alarm bell rang out, and men scrambled around the deck filling buckets and pots, bowls and barrels. The off-watch poured up from belowdecks, and a moment later, Jundis and the junior officers thundered up the stairs onto the quarterdeck, tucking in shirttails and tying back their hair as they came.

“Mister Jundis, organize the archers. There’s some kind of flaming creature flitting about. Shoot it down before it sets the ship afire.”

“Aye, sir!” Jundis had a cool head, and within moments he had the junior officers stationed about the ship with squads of crack marine archers.

Overhead, the lookouts and topmen called out whenever they spotted the fiery little creature. Arrows shot into the night, missing their mark, and some nearly hitting topmen, who screamed down vicious oaths. On deck, sailors swung at the fiery thing with belaying pins and boathooks, then swore when their mates on the fire crews mistakenly doused them with buckets of seawater in their attempts to wet down the planks and lines. Pendergast stood on the quarterdeck, trying to see everything at once, calling out orders with a calm authority intended to keep his officers and crew focused and prevent the uproar from becoming a disorganized tumult. Though they had not yet hit the creature, Pendergast felt sure that it was only a matter of time until a lucky archer hit the mark. His blood chilled when he heard a solitary cry ring out.

“Fire! Fire in the port main studdingsail!”

“Cut away the boom!” the captain cried to the topmen, who hastened to comply. If the fire spread, they were in serious trouble. A moment later, the boom crashed into the sea beside the ship, trailing lines and tatters of burning canvas. Pendergast could not even sigh in relief before another cry rang out from above.

“The fore-t’gallant! Fire in the fore-top!”

The captain’s gaze shot aloft. The glow of the burning sail illuminated the entire rig. The fire crews were trying to get buckets of water hauled up to douse it, but that was slow business.

“Cut it away!” he shouted, then immediately ordered, “Topmen, furl all but the mains and tops’ls!”