01 - The Burning Shore (11 page)

Well, that was no problem.

With a final check that his weapon was primed and loaded he slipped it into
his belt and swung himself over the
Destrier
’s prow.

“What you doing?” Graznikov asked, but Florin ignored him. All of his
concentration was focused on the creaking rat’s nest of frayed rope, torn sail
and chipped wood that he had begun to creep along. Below him the sea slipped
past the
Destrier
’s prow, the spray of cool water refreshing in the heat
of this moment.

“You can’t do that!” Graznikov howled as, inch by perilous inch, the
Bretonnian crawled towards the target.

The Kislevite was still howling his protests as Florin, swinging beneath the
stump of the pinnace, wrapped his legs around the timber and snagged the length
of rope upon which the block hung.

Drawing it towards him he carefully retrieved his pistol, put the muzzle to
the chipped wood of the target, and closed his eyes.

Then he pulled the trigger.

There was deafening bang and a backwash of sudden heat. Even before he opened
his eyes again Florin knew that he’d been successful. Graznikov’s storm of
protests was loud enough to be heard even above the ringing in his ears.

“Well done,” the skipper said as Florin pulled himself back on board and
handed the pistol back to the waiting Kislevite.

“No!” the Kislevite protested, stamping his foot on the deck. “No well done.
Cheated.”

“Are you calling me a cheat?” Florin asked, eyes narrowing in ersatz rage as
he gripped the hilt of his belt knife.

“No,” the Kislevite decided hastily. “No.”

“Excellent. Well, then, let’s get things moving, shall we? Skipper, perhaps
you’d let Graznikov’s men wait on the deck whilst my lot move into the upper
deck?”

“Yes, of course,” the sailor said. “Captain Graznikov, perhaps you’d gather
your men?”

“Old man Gorth gave me the upper deck.”

“You took your chance,” the skipper waved the objection away. “You lost. Now
go and prepare your men. I don’t won’t to waste any more time.”

Florin, eager to pass on the good news, followed him. Behind him Graznikov
turned to hide his rage, his face burning with hatred as he clenched the rail.

Their feet crashed down, as unified as the heart beat of a single great
beast. The halberds of the first rank, the steel teeth of this newly formed
monster, shot upwards, the fat blades chopping through the air as the men
snapped to attention. The back rank, meanwhile, held their guns vertically in
front of them.

The sting in the beast’s tail.

Orbrant, holding his warhammer casually, stood to one side of the formation,
his eyes bright with watchful pride.

The transformation the old warrior had wrought upon the mercenaries had been
miraculous. Even now Florin could hardly believe that these soldiers were the
same rabble that had greeted him on that first day aboard.

They were still dressed in a wild and ill assorted collection of clothes, it
was true, and while some of them sported elegant beards and moustaches, others
were clean-shaven, or stubbled.

But the discipline that Orbrant had instilled in them was all the uniform
they needed. Now, as they stood to perfect attention on the gently rolling deck,
their arms gleaming in the light of the tropical sun, Florin had to remind
himself not to show too much contentment.

After all, this was hardly the time.

Four bodies lay on planks that rested on the gunwales. They had been sewn
into sailcloth shrouds before being carried out onto the deck. All that remained
of these men’s lives were these four neat packages.

For them the escape from the squalor of the ship’s hold had come too late.
The fever that had found them there had eaten too deeply for a change of berth
to make any difference. The disease had followed them hungrily to their new
quarters, as mercilessly and eagerly as the rats that infested their food
stores.

For the dozenth time that morning Florin felt a pang of regret that he hadn’t
been able to help them.

It was ridiculous to feel responsible for them, he knew. He’d spent the storm
in the grip of the same fever that had killed them. For whatever reason, fortune
had seen fit to spare him whilst she had taken his men. That was hardly his
responsibility.

Nor was it like him to feel so bad. Guilty, even. The Florin that had come
aboard the
Destrier
wouldn’t have given the unknown corpses a moment’s
thought. Life was hard, after all, and death eager. And if it took someone else
instead of you, well then, that was all to the good.

But somehow, during the dark watches of the previous night, he had been
tormented with regrets. Lying in the humid confines of his cabin, staring up
into the darkness, he had fought in vain against the suspicion that he was
responsible.

If only he could have had the men moved before the storm. If only he had
spoken to the skipper before they sailed, or to old man Gorth himself. If
only…

“At ease,” Orbrant’s bark, and the thud of halberd butts hitting the deck,
broke Florin’s morbid chain of thought.

“All present and correct, sir.”

“Thank you, sergeant.” He cleared his throat. “Men, we are gathered here
today to bid farewell to our comrades Gilles Chevron, Enri Batien, Michellei
Vallard and Niccolo Jambon. It was your privilege to know them better than I,
but I know that they were loyal comrades and true. They will be missed.”

The men remained silent and grim-faced.

“It is with sadness that we send their bodies into the deeps. But it will be
with joy that they are remembered by those they leave behind, the joy of
friendship remembered and loyalty fulfilled. Let that joy speed them on their
way as we commend their souls to the great Manaan’s keeping.”

He paused, listening to the wind sighing in the knotted rigging above him,
and wondered if there was anything else to say.

But if there was, he didn’t know what.

“Sergeant, the salute.”

“Back rank,” Orbrant roared.

“Aim.”

“Ready.”

“Fire!”

A dozen guns boomed as the volley thundered upwards and rolled away into the
infinity of the ocean. Taking that as their cue, the men chosen to be
pallbearers stepped forward and lifted the planks. There was the hiss of rough
cloth on the planking, four distinct splashes, and the corpses were gone.

“Attention,” Orbrant barked. “And—wait for it—wait for it—dismissed!”

Florin watched the tight ranks of his company melt once more into a mob, and
wondered how many more of them would follow those first four before the
expedition was over.

There was no telling how old it was. It kept no count of the passing of
years, or of seasons. Its life was lived to one rhythm and one rhythm alone:
hunger.

And to follow this rhythm it was perfectly built.

Long and sleek, as dark and sudden as a nightmare, it scythed through the
lightless pressure of the depths with a lazy ease. Every line of its great bulk
was as sharp as a blade, every facet of its black skin as smooth as a pearl.
From the high sickle of its tail to the thousands of tiny razored teeth that
lined its maw, it was beautifully, horribly, lethal.

There was no telling where it came from. Others of its kin had been hatched
from eggs or birthed from monsters such as themselves. This one, though, seemed
too perfect to be natural. It was as though some insane god had crafted it as a
living poem of terror, and of violence, and of constant, endless hunger.

The only hint that it was a thing of this world and not of some troubled
dream were the traces of scars that marred the perfect blackness of its skin.
They came from eons past when it had struggled against vast and alien beasts,
horrors that had taken their mastery of the ocean’s trenches for granted.

Nightmares of beaks and tentacles they had grasped at it in a foolish
ambition that was to spell their doom. Now all that remained of them were the
cicatrices of healed wounds that punctuated their killer’s hide.

As the leviathan slipped effortlessly through the ocean’s deepest chasms, it
knew that there was nothing left that would dare to challenge it again. Its
dominance of this dark universe was unasailable, its hunger unassuaged.

When the first hint of blood drifted into its nostrils it didn’t hesitate.
With a slight twist of its body, a fractional curve of its fins, it turned
effortlessly away from its path and up towards the flesh that it smelled
above.

“They have come on,” Commander van Delft said as Orbrant ran the company
through their drill. Under his instruction the Bretonnians formed ranks, changed
formation then fired a perfectly timed volley into the sea.

“Good work.”

“Thank you, sir,” Florin’s chest swelled with pride.

“I was talking to your sergeant.”

“Ah.”

Lundorf, ever the professional, tried not to smile. Graznikov made no such
effort.

“Looks like he knows what he’s doing,” van Delft continued, tugging on the
white walrus tip of his moustache thoughtfully.

“Yes, sir,” Florin nodded. “I hear that he used to be a warrior priest. One
of those mad Sigmari…”

He trailed off, three words too late.

“Mad what?” the commander turned on him, eyes as cold and blue as Orbrant’s
own.

“Nothing, commander,” Florin decided. “But I believe he used to serve his god
and Emperor as a warrior priest.”

“Believe? Don’t you know?”

“I asked him, but he didn’t want to talk about it.”

“I thought you would have pressed him.”

Despite himself Florin felt a snap of irritation. Ever since the commander
had turned up for an unexpected inspection, he’d done everything he could to
keep Florin and Graznikov off balance.

“What the man did before he joined up is his own business.”

“Quite right too,” the commander nodded approvingly.

The little group lapsed into silence as Orbrant called the men to attention.

“Well done, men,” van Delft told them. “Glad to see that not everyone on this
ship has collapsed back into civilians.”

Graznikov wisely ignored the jibe. His own men, all of whom were armed with
the heavy, two-handed axes of their ancestors, had never been much for drill.
Nor did he think that they needed it. As far as he was concerned the main skill
a mercenary needed was to know who, not how, to fight.

If only the tsarina’s sheriffs hadn’t been so enthusiastic back home he’d
never have signed them up for anything as hare-brained as this.

“Tell me, Graznikov,” the commander switched his unwelcome attention from the
Bretonnian to the Kislevite. “Exactly why haven’t you been drilling your men,
again?”

“No room.”

“And yet the Bretonnians seem to find room enough.”

“My men, real warriors. With axes. No room for axes here,” Graznikov, who was
at least officer enough to know when retreat would be more dangerous than
staying put, folded his arms sullenly.

“Well, if you say so,” van Delft shrugged. “But I think that you could do
worse than to learn from Captain d’Artaud here.”

“Like you say, commander.”

Graznikov and Florin’s eyes met briefly.

No affection was lost.

Commander van Delft, who hadn’t become a commander by accident, pretended not
to notice the hostility.

“In fact, I’m sure that if you asked him, d’Artaud here might be willing to
take over for a while and train up your men.”

“No.”

“Just as you like, captain. We are all gentlemen of fortune, after all. I
wouldn’t presume to put one captain in charge of another’s company.”

The possibility hung uncomfortably in the air.

“Well, I’ve seen about as much as I need to,” the commander decided. “You can
dismiss the men, sergeant.”

Orbrant turned to Florin, awaiting his confirmation of the order. Florin felt
a surge of gratitude for the display of loyalty, although he was careful not to
let van Delft see it.

“Carry on, sergeant.

“Dismissed.”

“Yes, very impressive, your sergeant,” van Delft repeated as if to himself.
“Graznikov, would you excuse us for a moment? Why not take Lundorf here and show
him what sort of exercise drill you’ve implemented.”

“Yes, commander.” the Kislevite saluted and beckoned Lundorf, happy to escape.

Van Delft watched the two men clamber down onto the main deck and cross to
the hatch. The two companies lined the gunwales on either side of them. The
Bretonnians, following Orbrant’s lead, were busily sharpening their weapons. The
Kislevites watched them with an idle interest.

Van Delft studied the two groups thoughtfully.

“I’ve been thinking about that campaign you mentioned against the orcs. The
duke that led it, he was called d’Artaud too, wasn’t he? Any relation?”

“Oh, the count you mean. Yes, he was a third cousin. On my mother’s side.”