The Godspeaker Trilogy (218 page)

The deck of the Ilda thudded as the sailors followed her captain's curt orders, so that she and Han's vessel continued side by side. Without warning, Alasdair felt himself useless, a pointless decoration like brightwork or a posy of violets nailed to the mast. The least sailor on the Ilda had more value than he did. In the bow, Han's witch-men stood silent, as unnatural as men carved from stone. He stared at them, feeling sick.

The Ilda's not a warship. Are those three men enough to defend it? I have my sword. Ludo has his. Yanson and his sailors have their cudgels. And what use will they be if Zandakar's brother turns his gauntlet against us?

He started as Ludo took hold of his arm. “There's little point fretting, Alasdair. For good or for ill, we're here. It's best to believe we're here for a reason that will help Ethrea. They're saying their prayers for us, back home. Let's not disappoint them by succumbing to fear.”

Sensible advice. And from Ludo, no less. The world indeed was turned upon its head.

Now the salt-and-spray soaked air was threaded through with voices, singing. Songs of war and of courage, most likely, in a handful of different tongues, counterpoint to the rushing wind and the flapping canvas and the swift seething of water past wooden hulls. The sound might have been beautiful, if this were not such a deadly endeavour.

And under the voices, a stready throbbing of drums.

Ludo sucked in a sharp breath and pointed. “ Look .”

The vessels ahead of them had started to spread apart, seeking to make of the armada a more scattered target. And through the widening gaps, past Han's stone-still witch-men, at last could be seen the black warships of Mijak – as thick on the ocean as autumn leaves on a forest pond.

Alasdair felt his open mouth suck dry. He'd never felt so alone, so vulnerable, in all his life.

Rhian.

On the Tzhung flagship beside them, Han shouted another command. Some change came over his gathered witch-men, and the witch-men on the Ilda , and on every ship surrounding them. The air stirred…it whispered…and though the sun shone unhindered, suddenly the world was cold.

Captain Yanson approached. A grizzled man in his middle years, with skin as weathered as the wood of his ship, he offered a respectful nod. “Your Majesty, Your Grace, best gird yourselves for battle. Just in case those heathen crows in the bow can't save us, and every blessed ship between us and those Mijaki murderers gets sunk to the bottom.”

“A wise suggestion, Captain Yanson,” said Alasdair. “And may I say Godspeed to you now, sir, in case events should overtake us and the chance does not arise again.”

Yanson smiled, showing a mouth missing several teeth. “Godspeed to you too, Your Majesty. It's been a pleasure and an honour sailing with you, and the duke too. And I'll tell you, though maybe I oughtn't, that when I heard Eberg's daughter wanted the crown on her head I thought well, there's the end of Ethrea. But by God, I was wrong. And you can tell her I said so.”

Absurdly, the rough compliment throttled his rising fear. “Captain, Her Majesty will be pleased to know it.”

And then there was no time for compliments, or anything else. The drumbeat of the armada abruptly picked up speed, like a horse surging from canter to gallop. Turning, Alasdair felt his heart surge with it.

Mijak's warships were upon them. The time had come to fight.

Ebrich, Count of Arbenia, struck the first blow. The sound of fireballs hissing through the air was startling. Menacing. Even above the singing and the drumming and the noise of a fleet under sail, the flaming catapult stones could be heard ripping through the salt-wind in a fearsome bid to sink the front line of Mijaki warships.

“Rollin's mercy,” Ludo whispered. “It's started. Alasdair—”

What could they say to one another, that hadn't been said? Alasdair grasped his cousin's shoulder, briefly. “We'll tell our sons of this day, Ludo, I swear it. When we're grizzled like Yanson. We'll spin them tall tales.”

“Taller than this?” said Ludo, and tried to laugh. “Tall tales indeed.”

The Ilda had a kind of covered cabin built on the deck, three-quarters of the way towards her blunt stern. In tacit agreement they staggered their way to it, and hauled themselves up the wooden ladder on its port side until they stood high enough to see over the bow, and Han's witch-men, to the battle beyond.

There was nothing to hold on to. One pitch of the boat, one incautious bump from Han's vessel, or another, and they'd be thrown overboard like chewed apple-cores.

They looked at each other, and dropped to their knees.

Ahead they saw more fireballs flying, a burning hail to rain down upon the enemy. Then came a sighing hiss, as the archers of Harbisland added their fire to the fire of Arbenia, arrows wrapped in pitch-soaked cloth and set alight, to burn and burn the warships of Mijak.

And what warships they were. Long and lean and black as night, stretching in a solid wall across the horizon. Their prows were carved and painted into hideous figureheads: wicked-fanged snakes – cats' feet with claws extended, eager to slash – wild-eyed birds of prey with beaks desperate to tear flesh, talons grasping – and hideous scorpions, the sign of their god.

Not a single one of them was touched by fire.

“That's not right!” said Ludo, and risked clambering to his feet. “How is that possible?”

Though they were in range of the enemy, the fireballs and flaming arrows of Arbenia and Harbisland had fallen short into the ocean, did not touch the approaching warships of Mijak.

Alasdair shook his head. “I don't know. It's as though the fireballs and arrows strike an invisible wall .”

From the warships of Mijak rose a skin-chilling chant, a single voice from so many thousand throats: “ Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho! ”

Alasdair looked over at Han and his witch-men. Standing at their boat's bow, like the Ilda's witch-men so tall and still and eerily silent, their bodies yielding to the moving deck so they seemed to stand on dry land, the Tzhung appeared to be doing nothing at all.

“I don't understand ,” said Ludo, as yet more fireballs and flaming arrows plunged harmless into the steaming ocean. “Why don't Han's witch-men do something?”

And then came a stream of scarlet fire from one Mijaki warship…and Ebrich of Arbenia's boat erupted into flames and flying splinters. Above the Mijaki chanting, high-pitched terrified screams and wails. All around them the sails of the Arbenian fleet were struck by burning spars and embers and caught fire. Men caught fire. The Count of Arbenia's flagship, what was left of it, sank beneath the ocean's surface. The water was littered with bodies and burning debris. Another scarlet stream of fire, and the Slainta of Harbisland's warship perished in flames.

Confusion and screaming among the armada. The drums ceased their beating. The world held its breath.

“This is madness!” said Ludo. “We're going to die here without striking a single blow.”

Alasdair didn't answer, he just looked at Han and his witch-men. A wind was stirring about them…and only them. Their hair whipped around their heads, their black silk tunics snapped and tugged. He swept his gaze over the vessels nearest to them, over the witch-men gathered in every bow. Like Han and his witch-men, each group stood in the centre of its own small windstorm.

And the wind was rising…rising…

“ Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho !” came the chant from the Mijaki warships, easily filling the distance between them. “ Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho! ”

“Look!” shouted Ludo. “Alasdair, look !”

Despite the mayhem at the front of the armada, despite the screams and the debris and the boats battling fire, not the enemy, the sailors on board those Arbenian and Harbisland vessels not sunk or burning had recovered their senses and were redoubling their efforts. The sky almost disappeared behind a fury of catapulted fireballs and flaming arrows.

This time the fireballs and arrows struck home.

A cheer went up from the armada as the first Mijaki warships were battered to oblivion. Mingled with the cheering, the screams of dying warriors. The screams of horses, trapped below decks in the burning, sinking ships of Mijak.

Alasdair, stomach heaving, spat bile down to the Ilda's deck.

“That stream of fire, that must be Dmitrak's gauntlet,” said Ludo. He was shaking, shuddering on his knees. “Has his warship been destroyed? Have we killed him?”

In reply to his desperate question, another lance of scarlet fire streamed into the armada. It began to travel sideways, scything through the front line of ships with horrifying ease.

“God's mercy, what is Han doing ?” demanded Ludo, close to weeping. “Why don't his witch-men stop this? It's slaughter!”

Whatever power the Mijaki called on, it protected the warship of Zandakar's brother. No fireball fell on it, every arrow aimed to kill it plummeted hissing into the ocean.

But at least other Mijaki warships suffered.

The wind whipping Han and his witch-men increased. Now it was howling around every witch-man Alasdair could see, it howled and raged and when he looked back at their enemy he saw their warships starting to plunge uneasily, like tethered horses scenting danger in the air.

The rain of fireballs was weakening. Fewer arrows flew over the water. The surviving ships of Arbenia and Harbisland were running out of things to throw.

Then came more shouting, the redoubled sound of pounding drums, and the knife-shaped triremes of Dev-karesh came flying through the fleet. Their prows weren't carved to figureheads, they were graced with iron spikes, long and lethal. The ships were driven by the witch-men's wind and by oars, by sailors trained their whole lives to row fast…row faster…to spit an enemy like a boar.

The witch-men's howling wind rose to a fever pitch. Alasdair could feel it plucking at him, even at the other end of the boat. The drums of Dev-karesh boomed louder, quicker, as their ramming vessels aimed for the floating heart of Mijak.

“ Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho !” came the chant from its warships, almost loud enough now to drown the Dev'kareshi drums. “ Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho! ”

Then the howling wind's note rose high and keening, and there were waterspouts forming among the warships of Mijak. Huge waves were rising, tall as mountains. And the triremes of Dev'karesh were flying like needles.

“Is that Han? Is that the witch-men?” cried Ludo.

“Who else?” said Alasdair, and held his sobbing breath.

Sink them, Han. Sink every last one of them. Drive Mijak's warships to the depths.

The wind and the waterspouts came from nowhere, came howling through the mighty warships of Mijak. The spiked enemy ships came with them, they rammed Mijak's warships to splinters and pulled back, they came so fast, with oars and in the wind. Vortka's godspeakers could not hold against them, their power in the god was not strong enough. Dmitrak could not kill them, he could not see through the wind and the water to aim.

“ What is this, Vortka ?” Hekat shouted above the noise, as her warship's torn scorpion sail flapped and her boat rolled wildly and below its deck her warriors' horses screamed. “Why do your godspeakers fail in the god's eye? Why do they not blow out these winds?”

Vortka steadied himself against her warship's godpost, struggling to keep his feet. “It is likely a sea-storm,” he shouted back. “The slaves warned us in Jatharuj that—”

“ Tcha !” she spat. Had she defended him to Dmitrak? Had she told herself she loved him? He was an old man, an old fool. Was he blind in the god's eye and no longer precious? “Is this a seastorm, Vortka? I think it is not! I feel the demons in this wind, do you say you cannot?”

The vicious wind was whipping the ocean into frothy peaks, spraying them with water as though the sky were full of clouds and rain. Soaked to the skin, shivering with cold, still she struck the godspeaker who tried to give her a blanket.

I am Hekat, Empress of Mijak. The god keeps me warm, the god warms me in its eye.

“Demons?” said Vortka. “Hekat—”

“There are demons, I tell you!” she shouted, grabbing hold of his godspeaker robes. Aieee, the god see her, she could shake him to pieces. “Brothers to the demons who thwarted us in the desert, brothers to the demons who stole the trade winds from the sky. They travel with the enemy ranged before us! They stink in my nostrils, they stink in my mind! Tell me you can feel them, Vortka. Tell me their stink is in your nostrils also. Tell me the god is not lost to your heart !”

She watched his hand play over his scorpion pectoral, watched the pain and indecision twist his old, thin face. At last he nodded. “Yes, Hekat. I can feel the demons, I can smell them.”

As the wind howled around them, as the waterspouts lashed her warships like whips, as the ships of her enemy spitted her warships and killed them, she caught Vortka's silver godbraids in her hand, she pressed her face to his face and let the ocean fall on their heads.

“I knew you were not lost to me,” she told him. “I knew we were still godchosen together. I must sacrifice to defeat these demons.”

He closed his hand over hers and shook his head. “No, Hekat. I am Mijak's high godspeaker. I will give the god its blood.”

She released him and stepped back, for the moment she was satisfied. He would give the god blood and the demons would die.

Dmitrak squatted beside her warship's rail, salt water streaming across his gold-and-crystal gauntlet. It soaked his scarlet godbraids and stopped his godbells from singing. Rising from his crouch, easily riding the warship's roll and pitch, he shouted, “Can he break the demons, Empress? Vortka is old now, and feeble. He is done.”

If they were alone she would strike him for saying so, but the deck around them was crowded with warriors and godspeakers. Instead she seared him with a look, a promise of later retribution.

“He will break them, warlord. He is Vortka, godchosen and precious.”

Vortka's godspeakers gathered around the godpost, they had lambs and cockerels and knives and bowls for the blood. On Vortka's command the animals were sacrificed. Hekat closed her eyes, feeling the demons. They were barely affected by the animals' blood. When she opened her eyes she saw twelve warships broken, the waterspouts smashed them like eggs thrown onto rock. And then as she watched, eight more warships were thrown down, two by the enemy and six by the wind. The wind of those demons whipped up waves so high they drowned her warships and her warriors, she heard them screaming as the water killed them in the world.