Master of the Cauldron (18 page)

Stasslin cut at Cashel's head without warning. Cashel'd figured he might pull that. He shifted his right arm just a little so that the whistling wooden sword smacked into the end of the quarterstaff.

The sword flew off in the air while Stasslin yelped and grabbed his tingling sword hand with the other. He'd at least been trying, so Cashel hadn't let him smash his hand itself into the iron butt cap and break all his fingers. Still, Cashel wasn't feeling so kindly to a fellow who'd tried to sucker punch him that he didn't kick Stasslin just below the edge of his breastplate.

Cashel was barefoot, but he was generally barefoot, so his soles were tough as ox hide. Stasslin flew backward, hit the ground, and spewed up more breakfast than you ought to eat before you start a workout.

Cashel backed away. “Mab, you stay clear!” he said, but she was just a shimmer of light robes. All Cashel was really seeing right then were the five Sons still standing. “You, Herron! Get your gear on now while I give you the chance!”

Herron made as if to kneel, but that was a feint too, just like all the foot-stamping when the Sons “fought” each other. Well, you shouldn't
trust the guy who's planning to whale the daylights out of you, but Cashel was finding all this pussyfooting around troublesome. If Herron didn't—

Herron knelt for real this time and slapped the helmet over his head so quick that he canted the noseguard over the corner of his left eye. He seized the double handgrip of his buckler and scrabbled for the wooden sword, grabbing it first by the wrong end.

Cashel shifted his quarterstaff crosswise before him, gripping it with his hands just more than shoulder's width out on the shaft. He hadn't had time to limber up properly, but he contented himself with a few twists and flexes instead of giving his staff the series of spins that he'd have liked to. He had too many opponents, and they were too close for that to be safe.

While Herron was getting himself back together, the other four Sons still upright stood with their swords and shields lifted but not doing anything. That was pretty much what Cashel'd figured would happen, though he'd been ready if they'd managed to show some spirit.

He didn't worry about Stasslin except for remembering where he was just as same as he'd need to for a section of tree trunk. After a kick in the belly like he'd taken, Stasslin wouldn't be leaving the field without a buddy to help him.

Herron got his sword right end to, then jumped back to put himself at the end of the tight line his friends had formed. Cashel stepped forward, shifting his grip again. He slammed his staff's left ferrule low into Herron's chest. The boy managed to get his shield in the way, but Cashel's straight thrust banged it out of the way without slowing.

Herron went over backward, throwing his sword and buckler out to opposite sides. There was a fist-sized dent in his breastplate, right over the pit of his stomach.

Enfero and Manza rushed Cashel together. They weren't coordinated enough to have planned it, but it was a good tactic anyhow. Because his left ferrule was leading, Cashel backpedaled and brought his right arm around widdershins, catching Manza on the left hip and flinging him into Enfero.

The two of them went down with a crash of metal. The sound seemed to have triggered Athan to leap forward. The Gods only knew what the fellow planned to do, but he managed to get his feet tangled with Manza's legs and tripped. That was better luck than he'd otherwise have had, because Cashel rapped him behind the ear with the shaft of the quarterstaff instead of catching him with the iron-shod tip.

Enfero raised his head. Cashel clipped him a good one, sending his dented helmet flying. Manza was clutching his left hip with both hands and moaning. Cashel hoped he hadn't broken the bone, but he didn't pull his blows in a fight.

Orly was the only one left. He'd raised his sword overhead like a torch to light his surroundings. He had a fixed look of horror on his face.

“I guess you can put that down, buddy,” Cashel said, his voice a low growl. “I guess you can see it's all over.”

“Kill the monsters!” Orly screamed, and charged straight forward. That was the first surprise Cashel'd had in the whole fight, but he brought his staff around low and swept the boy's legs out from under him, dropping him as neatly as a scythe does oats. Orly hit on his belly hard enough to knock the breath out of him. The sword flew out of his hand and clacked into the parapet. He tried to get up, but the best he could do was paw the ground while weeping with frustration.

“Hey, way to go, soldier boys!” shouted the man who'd made the earlier gibe. He began to clap.

Cashel strode toward him. “You want a chance?” he said in a savage voice nothing like the way he normally sounded. “They at least were willing to try. You want to show your girl what you're made of? Because just say the word, and I
will
show her!”

The man backed away in terror. He stumbled and almost fell.

“Boo!” shouted Cashel, waggling his quarterstaff overhead. The man gave a strangled cry and staggered off. The woman with him glanced over her shoulder to watch him go, then turned to stare at Cashel.

Cashel sank to one knee and butted the staff into the ground for an additional support. He'd been moving his considerable weight very fast, and he needed more air now than his lungs could take in even through his open mouth.

Mab walked over to Cashel and put a supportive hand on his shoulder. To the sprawled Sons she said, “You've learned the reality of what you claim you're willing to do. Go to your homes, now, when you're able to. The Councillors will be calling an emergency Assembly before the week's out, unless I'm badly mistaken. If you're really willing to be the heroes you claim you are, come to that Assembly. Ronn will need you.”

The Sons didn't say anything, though Herron's lips moved as though he would've spoken if he could've drawn in a breath.

Mab nodded in approval. “Come, Cashel,” she said. “You'll be ready for a meal, I suspect.”

 

Sharina stood with Tenoctris in the small box projecting from the starboard prow of the
Star of Valles,
looking ahead as the ship rocked through slow swells on oars alone. The box—the ear timber—kept the outrigger from being smashed when the trireme rammed another ship.

The space was tight for even two slim women, but everything aboard a trireme was tight. At least there they weren't in the way of the crew and didn't risk being trampled by the soldiers who, less used to crowding than oarsmen, had left their benches and squeezed together on the decks, where they could stretch their legs.

Tenoctris held a small codex and was trying to read it in the fading light. Sharina had found that the ship's rise and fall seemed less uncomfortable if she looked at the horizon instead of down into a page on her lap.

The old wizard sighed and closed her book. “What do you know about the People, Sharina?” she asked. “The ones who invaded Ornifal. It's”—she smiled—“after my time, you see.”

“I'm sorry, Tenoctris,” Sharina said. “I know as little about Ornifal's history a generation ago as I do what was happening on the far side of the moon. I don't think Lord Waldron is much of a student of foreign cultures”—this was her turn to smile—“but some of the other officers may know something about the background to the invasion.”

She looked forward again and pursed her lips. A few stars shone on the eastern horizon. There were two lookouts in the prow of the
Star of Valles,
clinging to the jib boom, but even so it'd soon be too dark to see shoals a safe distance ahead. Both Waldron and Bedrin were aboard the
Star of Valles.
The other five ships of the squadron followed in line, so that if the leader ran aground they'd at least be able to take off the crew and passengers.

It was still a dangerous proceeding, and Sharina knew that the way she'd forced Bedrin to put out later than he'd wanted to was part of the reason. In war, in life, you had to make the best decisions you could, even when none of the choices were good ones.

Something gleamed in the sea just ahead of the trireme's foaming bow wave. Sharina touched the older woman's hand. “Tenoctris?” she said. “Do you see—just ahead of us there?”

The shimmer broached and rode the trireme's bow wave for a moment, looking back over its shoulder. Looking back over
her
shoulder, for the figure was as distinctly female as she was human—save for the webs between her toes and fingers and the yellow-green sheen of her hair.

“She sees us!” the swimming figure called in delight, and she dived back into the sea.

“Tenoctris!” Sharina said. “She's a nymph! I saw a nymph swimming with us!”

The two sailors on lookout were muttering to one another, glancing sidelong at Sharina in the boxing just below them, but Tenoctris wore an expression of careful reserve. “Didn't you see her, Tenoctris?” Sharina said.

The nymph and two others curved up from the depths. As they swam, easily matching the speed of the laboring trireme, they chattered, “She sees us/Do you see us, missy?/Oh look at her hair/at her hair/at her golden hair!” Their words were as clear as the piercing notes of the timekeeper's flute in the stern, but Sharina realized she wasn't hearing them with her ears.

“I see something, dear,” Tenoctris said. She bent forward; Sharina put a hand on her shoulder just in case the older woman managed to overbalance as she tried to glimpse what Sharina had said was there. “I see power, a great deal of power. Concentrated, flowing out of the depths and proceeding with us; but I don't see nymphs as nymphs, I'm afraid.”

“But you're a wizard!” Sharina said desperately. She needed to have her vision affirmed—not because Tenoctris doubted her, but because she doubted herself. “I'm just a person!”

The nymphs curled beneath the surface again. This time Sharina followed their track into the depths, through water that was suddenly as clear as the air on a bright day. They rolled over and came up again, trailing bubbles and joined by three more of their kind. “…so lovely/so lovely/so lovely!” they caroled.

“You're a person who's been in places few humans go,” Tenoctris said, straightening and giving Sharina a kindly smile. “Places I haven't been, many of them. That doesn't make you a wizard, but you shouldn't be surprised to find that you see things other people don't. Their minds haven't learned the tricks of observation that yours has.”

“Your ladyship?” said one of the lookouts, leaning toward them over the bow railing. The sailor knew
of
ladies, though he might never before have been close enough to touch one. He didn't have any notion of the
form of address proper to royalty, so he was making do as well as he could. “Please?”

“What?” said Sharina, looking up in surprise. The fellow was balding. He wore a gold ring through his right—and only—ear, and he spoke with a thick Sandrakkan accent. “You mean me?”

“Right, your ladyship,” the sailor said. The other lookout was looking over his shoulder with a pained but hopeful expression. “Please? Did you call the Ladies down there to help us along?”

“You can see them?” Sharina said in relief. “The nymphs?”

“The Ladies, yes,” the sailor said, relieved also not to be called down for speaking. He wouldn't use the word “nymph” though, preferring the euphemism. “I see them, and my mate D'vobin here sees them kinda.”

“We been to sea all our lives, you see,” the other lookout said, obviously relaxing. “You see a lot of things, mostly at night.”

“We know the Ladies help sailors sometimes when they're, well, in the mood,” the first man said. “And we were hoping, you know…”

“We can help you, missy!” a nymph called. “We can draw you to where you want ever so quickly. Would you like us to help you, missy?”

Sharina thought the speaker might be the first one she'd seen, but she couldn't be sure. There were twelve of them now, dancing around and below the trireme. The darkening sea had vanished, and the ship drifted over a bottom dressed in pearly light.

“For a price!” sang a chorus of nymphs, “For a price/price/price!” In a descant above them a solo voice trilled, “Such lovely hair…”

Commander Bedrin strode into the bow. Master Rincale, the sailing master of the
Star of Valles,
followed close behind. Lord Waldron was coming forward also, his face set like a granite cliff.

“What are you doing?” Bedrin demanded, glaring at Tenoctris. He let his gaze slide into the water, then jerked his eyes back. “What have you
done
? Are you responsible for this, wizard?”

“Lady Tenoctris is no more responsible for our visitors than I am,
Master
Bedrin,” Sharina said, emphasizing her superior rank in a fashion she'd never have done if she weren't uncomfortable with what she was seeing in the water.

“We can help you, missy,” said a nymph. “We can sweep you to your desire quickly, so very quickly.”

“Quickly/quickly/very quickly,” chorused her sisters in voices like silver bars ringing.

“Your highness, I'm sorry,” Bedrin replied. He waved his hand toward the sea, making it clear that he was one of those who saw and heard the nymphs clearly. “I—it's getting dark, and the current's set against us. And now this, these.”

Bedrin swallowed, grimaced, and said in a softer voice, “We honor the Ladies, of course, and we'd appreciate any help they offered us…but never would I
ask
them to involve themselves in the affairs of mere mortals like us.”

“For a price…,” the nymphs sang. “For a little price, lovely missy.”

“I see,” said Sharina. She looked into the crystal, which gleamed where the sea ought to be. She imagined that her face looked much like Lord Waldron's. Still she—she grinned—knew her duty. “Ladies, what is your price to carry us to Valles safely, all five ships?”