Scimitar War (23 page)

Even as the men spread out along the yards and pulled in the vast expanse of canvas, punching it into tight wads and lashing it down, a stiff breeze piped up from dead astern, cracking the sails and urging
Iron Drake
forward. By the time the burning fore-topgallant flew away to forward in a shower of sparks, the ship was ripping through the sea at an easy ten knots.

“Where in the Nine Hells did this breeze come from?” Pendergast muttered as he watched the last glittering embers of the fore-topgallant blown before them. The wind was tearing the mists apart, clearing the air, and the floating sparks seemed to hover before the ship in a cloud. He squinted, trying to focus on the lights, which now seemed to be farther away. Something wasn’t right about this.

“Lookout!” he bellowed. “Ware away forward! What are those lights?”

“Dunno, sir. Looks like a bunch of sparks. Maybe a whole swarm of them flamin’ critters!”

The wind stiffened, urging them forward even faster, and Pendergast’s gut filled with irrepressible dread. Considering the havoc a single one of those things had wreaked, a swarm of them, with this sudden wind to feed the flames, did not bode well. Snatching up his viewing glass, he stared ahead, praying the lookout was wrong. Then he realized that it wasn’t a swarm of fiery little women. It was much, much worse.

Akrotia was upon them.

≈

The flames of a dozen bonfires threw sparks into the night sky. It was a beautiful sight, and the natives of Vulture Isle and Captain Donnely’s crew were enjoying themselves heartily as they celebrated their victory. Huffington sat beyond the bright firelight, sipping an herbal concoction to ease a headache which pounded to the rhythmic beat of the natives’ chanting song. Donnely’s surgeon had shaved around his head wound, scrubbed out the nasty gash with an evil-smelling liquid that burned like the Nine Hells, and stitched it up, pronouncing him “fit for duty.” Personally, Huffington didn’t agree with that assessment. He was walking, albeit shakily, and counted himself lucky to be alive, but his true wound was deeper; he had failed his master.

Count Norris sat nearby, Tim at his side, also in no mood to partake in the celebration. Camilla lay before them on a litter, alive, though her breathing was shallow and her color deathly pale. The native healer had examined her, and Tawah had translated the diagnosis, though all he said was that Camilla was “hurt inside,” before hurrying off to treat those more gravely wounded. His magic was limited, and had to be used to tend the life-threatening injuries first. The count clutched Camilla’s hand, worry etched deeply on his face.

“I don’t know why she won’t wake,” Norris said for what must have been the tenth time that hour. “She’s breathing much better, and her heart is beating easy, but she remains comatose. I simply don’t understand it.”

“She’ll wake, Father,” Tim said. There was new confidence in the boy’s manner. Indeed, Huffington resolved to stop thinking of Tim as a boy, and instead as an adept young man. By all accounts, Tim had handled himself admirably in the battle.

Better than I did
, Huffington thought as he gingerly felt his wound. Tawah had told of seeing Tim guarding his father’s back as they charged through the melee, on more than one occasion saving the count from a fate similar to that of his secretary. No longer did anyone dispute the cutlass that Tim wore at his hip, not even Captain Donnely.

“Patience, milord,” Huffington counseled, rubbing his temples in an attempt to scour away the pain in his head. “The lady’s been through a lot, and there might be a bit of my concoction in her yet that keeps her sleeping.”

“You think she may have taken in some of the poison?” There was new worry in Norris’ voice, and Huffington chided himself for mentioning it.

“It’s possible, milord, but she’s alive, which means she didn’t get much of a dose.” That was a true statement if ever he had spoken one. Huffington had used four different substances in the brew for the arrows, not knowing what would or wouldn’t affect the demon. But he knew how they would affect a human, and if Camilla had taken in much at all, she would be dead. “Time and care’ll bring her around.”

“We should tell the healer, don’t you think? Perhaps he can counteract the poisons.”

“He knows, milord,” Huffington assured his master. “Best leave her be, and let her come around on her own.”

“But perhaps if he could—”

“Father,” Tim interrupted, placing a hand on Norris’ arm, his eyes fixed on the approaching Captain Donnely. The captain was flanked by two of his officers and four marines.

Now there will be all Nine Hells to pay
, Huffington thought warily.

“Ah, Milord Count. I see that you are jealously guarding your prize from the battle.” Donnely stopped and tucked his thumbs in his belt, smiling broadly. “How is the lady?”

“Alive, but still unconscious, Captain,” Norris answered, his tone carefully neutral. He remained seated, and maintained his grasp on Camilla’s hand. “Though I would not account her as my prize.”

“I meant no disparagement, milord,” the captain assured him with a short bow. “In fact, I came over to offer you my thanks. The assault could not have gone better, and I give much of that credit to our native allies. The alliance you brokered served us very well.”

“I’m glad that you are pleased, Captain,” said Norris, though to Huffington, the count’s expression suggested that he would rather the officer simply go away.

“Yes, well, we’ll be off at first light for Vulture Isle. Some of the natives wish to stay here for a while to hunt down those who escaped us, which is fine by me. They’re a rather bloodthirsty lot when they’re riled, you know. Even the women.” He shrugged and glanced over his shoulder at the throng of celebrating natives and sailors. “It gives one pause.”

“No doubt,” Norris said, then looked pointedly back down at Camilla.

“I’ll have a detail transfer the injured, including Lady Camilla, aboard
Cape Storm
in the morning. I suggest you take some rest, Milord Count. You’ve had a busy evening.”

The captain turned and strode back to the bonfires, trailed by his men.

“Pompous twit,” Huffington muttered.

Tim failed to stifle a snort of laughter, and even the count smiled.

“The world is full of pompous twits, my friend,” Norris said wearily. One-handed, he tried to bundle a blanket for a pillow without letting go of Camilla, fumbling until Tim did it for him. With a grateful smile, the count leaned back. “But you must admit; this particular twit has been very useful.”

Huffington stifled a chuckle, but only because his head hurt.

≈

Hydra lay coiled in a ball of hate and agony. It took all its remaining strength, which wasn’t much, to maintain its hold on the woman’s mind. Camilla struggled to wake, but the demon suppressed her. It was too weak to control her; it needed blood to regain strength, and the woman had none to spare. It had taken all it dared to combat the poison, and if it took any more now, she would die. Then the demon would be forced back into the prison beneath the keep, and there would be no more blood.

It clung to the damaged physical shell and waited. Eventually, the body would generate more blood, and then it could feed. Once it regained sufficient strength, it would wake her and take this man whose hand clutched Camilla’s. It could feel the pulse in his fingers, warm against her skin, could almost taste his blood, it was so close. It longed to wake her and take what it needed, but it was still too weak; if it woke her too soon, it would lose control of her mind.

Patience
, it thought, seething with rage at the vile trick the humans had played on it. It would bide its time and plan its revenge.
Twice they have poisoned me, and they will pay now as they did before…with blood.

≈

“Hard to starboard!” Pendergast bellowed, cursing his stupidity. Flaming creatures and sudden winds, and they were searching for a fire-enchanted floating island…he should have guessed. “Man the braces! Set the jibs and fore-staysail and tend your sheets! Helmsman, take her upwind as close as she’ll bear!” Canvas shot up the forestays and the great wheel turned.
Iron Drake
answered, plowing to windward, spray flying from her prow. As they turned, Akrotia loomed in its enormity, and Pendergast struggled to catch his breath.

The sheer size of the thing staggered him; it filled half of the southern horizon. Spires, arches and towers glittered with motes of fire that grew brighter by the moment. Admiral Joslan had provided him with the seamage’s account of the city, but he had presumed the proportions to be exaggeration or sheer fabrication.

“What is it even
doing
here?” he muttered. “It should be hundreds of miles south, deep in the heart of the Sea of Lost Ships.”

The wind suddenly shifted, backfilling the sails and killing the ship’s forward momentum. Cries rang out from above as topmen were flogged by the luffing canvas, and the helmsman swore as he tried to compensate by adjusting his heading.

“What in the Nine Hells is going on?” Pendergast cursed. With a start, he recalled another detail from the seamage’s tale: the pyromage who inhabited Akrotia could control the wind. Running under sail, he realized, was futile. They were being drawn in like a moth to a flame.

“Strike all sails!” he bellowed, drawing his cutlass and hacking through the mizzen halyard himself. “Cut them down if you have to, but get that canvas down right now! All spare hands to the sweeps, Mister Jundis, and I mean everyone! I want the bloody cook with an oar in his hands!”

“Aye, sir!” Jundis shouted a stream of orders and vanished below with dozens of men, while the sailors on watch furled sails and slacked halyards, bundling the canvas on deck.

“Helmsman, steer straight away from that bloody thing. I don’t care if we’re heading straight into the wind.” He had no doubt that the wind would be against them, but with every man at an oar, they might have a chance. He glanced aloft as the last sail was furled, and realized that there was still too much windage from the rigging. “Topmen, strike all the sails to the deck, and get the damned yards down, too!” He looked back over the taffrail at the glittering mountain of light, and prayed to every god he knew that it was only his imagination that it was closer.

The sweeps bit into the sea with a vengeance, but the countering wind howled through the rigging, hindering their progress. Pendergast glanced back every couple of minutes, and his heart sank. Akrotia was indeed closer, so close that he could see the white foam of the sea churning against its shore. It was making headway toward them, even as they struggled to edge away.

“Damn you!” Pendergast snarled as he gripped the taffrail and glared. It was using the wind both to propel itself forward and to hinder his escape. The city was gaining on them. He didn’t know exactly what would happen when it caught up, but he knew he could not outrun this monstrosity in these winds.

He looked down at the boats trailing along in his wake, and realized that something lighter and lower might just be able to escape this trap.

“Bosun! Send for Mister Jundis double quick, and pull the boats up to the transom. Rig a boarding ladder and a cargo hoist from the mizzen boom.” He cast his eyes about before fixing them on a hapless cabin boy cowering by the quarterdeck rail. “You there, lad. Off to my cabin and come back here with the big wooden box under the chart table. Run, lad!” The boy dashed off, and Pendergast looked back over the taffrail, wondering if he had time to execute his plan.

“Sir!”

Jundis’ breathless shout brought Pendergast around, and he saw the terror in the young officer’s face. “Ah, Mister Jundis. Very good.” The captain tried to put a note of confidence and calm in his voice, for his lieutenant’s sake. “I have a mission for you, and I’m relying on you to carry it out without question. Do you understand?”

“Of course, sir!” Jundis snapped a salute, stifling his panic with military decorum.

“Excellent! I need you to take all of the officers and the best rowers we’ve got, and man the boats.” The cabin boy ran up just then bearing his box of navigational charts and instruments. “You’re to take this box—the ship’s log and relevant charts are within—and as much food and water as you can carry. Row, do
not
sail, perpendicular to our current course until you are well clear of the city and its winds, then get back to Plume Isle as quickly as you can by whatever means. You must notify the admiral of this menace, or our entire mission will be a failure. Tell him that Akrotia uses the winds, both to move and against any ships within a mile or so. Captain Donnely was deployed to Vulture Isle, so look for his masts as you pass. If you see them, rendezvous first with
Cape Storm
and make a report to Donnely.” Pendergast fixed the lieutenant with a stare. Jundis swallowed hard, and nodded in understanding; the ship would be lost, and it was up to him to complete their mission. “I need you to do this very quickly, Lieutenant. We haven’t much time.”

As if to emphasize their peril, a horrendous screech split the night, as if a thousand swords were shearing through stone. Both officers cringed and looked aft. A huge circular aperture, glowing with inner fire, shuddered open like an immense mouth. Pendergast knew in his gut that it would swallow them whole.

He grasped Jundis’ arm. “Now, Lieutenant!” He pressed his pocket watch into the man’s hand, and slapped him on the shoulder.

Jundis stared at the watch for a second, then his jaw clenched. “Aye, aye, sir!”

Iron Drake
had four longboats, all of which could hoist masts and sail, or be rowed. In short order, each was crowded with the stoutest sailors Jundis could muster, and enough food and water to last them a week. The lieutenant gave the order, and the boats shoved away. With a dozen men each hauling hard on the oars, the small boats fairly flew away. The sight gave Pendergast the courage to give his next order.

“Avast rowing! Man all catapults and ballistae for a port broadside! Helmsman, hard to port.”

The zeal with which his men answered his orders made Captain Pendergast’s heart soar. The men knew full well their fate—none could miss the fiery mountain bearing down on them, the gaping maw of the harbor arch poised to swallow the ship—and still, they manned their stations with fortitude. The ship turned beam to the wind as the men strained to load their weapons in the howling gale.

“As she bears…” the captain called. The arch loomed near, and he could see the edges of the huge bronze plates that had receded into it. The city glowed with inner fire now, and heat washed over them. He didn’t know if his attack would harm this dreadnaught, but at this point an act of utter defiance seemed, if nothing else, poignant. He grinned maniacally as he considered this unexpected turn in his flagging career, and gave the order.

“FIRE!”

The deadly missiles flew. Great balls of hardest granite and shafts of iron-tipped hardwood smashed against Akrotia, carving out splinters of stone. One catapult missile even soared high enough to smash against the arch, and stone chips rained down. The men cheered as Pendergast gave the order to point the ship directly at the city and reload their weapons. They were His Majesty’s navy, the emperor’s strong right arm, and they would not go down without a fight, futile though it might be.

The ship charged straight toward the archway, the wind howling behind her. Captain Pendergast blinked his eyes against the searing heat, and raised his sword.

“FIRE!”

Even as the order tore from his throat, Pendergast watched the deck of the
Iron Drake
smolder beneath his feet. A moment later, the death cries of one hundred and twenty men were swallowed in an eruption of incandescent flame.

≈

The fire was satisfying, Edan thought, but far too small and far too brief. He had used more power chasing the ship than he reaped from the blaze, but the fury burned bright in his mind, and it—she—would not allow him to ignore the prize. It had been an imperial warship, after all. Somehow, watching it burst into flames had been as great a rush as the fire itself.