Ships from the West (4 page)

There were stone flags set in the grass, and the pair climbed up them until they stood before the cairn on the summit. It was some five feet high, and a granite slab had been set upon its top. There were words chiselled into the dark stone.

Here lie we, Tormina’s dead.

Whose lives once bought a nation liberty.

Mirren’s mouth opened. ‘Is this—?’

‘The ruins you see were once a hamlet named Armagedir,’ Corfe said quietly. ‘And the mound?’

‘A grave barrow. We gathered all those whom we could find, and interred them here. I have many friends in this place, Mirren.’

She took his hand. ‘Does anyone else come here any more?’

‘Formio and Aras and I, once every year. Apart from that, it is left to the wolves and the kites and the ravens. Since the mound was raised, this world of ours has moved on at a pace I would never once have believed possible. But it exists in its present form only because of the men whose bones moulder underneath our feet. That is something you, as my daughter, must never forget, even if others do.’

Mirren made as if to speak, but Corfe silenced her with a gesture. ‘Wait.’

Arrowing out of the west there came a single bird, a falcon or hawk of some kind. It circled their heads once, and then plummeted towards them. The marmoset shrieked, and Mirren soothed it with a caress. The bird, a large gyrfalcon, alighted on the grass mere feet away, and spent a few seconds rearranging its pinion feathers before opening its hooked beak and speaking in the low mellifluous voice of a grown man.

‘Your majesty. We are well met.’

‘Golophin. What tidings from the west?’

The bird cocked its head to one side to bring one inhuman yellow eye to bear. ‘The combined fleet put to sea three days ago. They are cruising in the area of North Cape and have a squadron out keeping watch on the western approaches to the Brenn Isles. Nothing as yet.’

‘But you’re sure the enemy is at sea.’

‘Oh yes. We’ve had a picket line of galliots cruising beyond the Hebrionese for four months. In the last sennight every one of them has disappeared. And a fair portion of the northern herrin fleet has failed to make it back to port, and yet the weather has been fine and clear. There’s something out there, all right.’

‘What of your raptor’s eyes?’

A pause, as if the bird were distracted or Golophin was considering his words. ‘My familiar is based here, in Torunna, for the moment, your majesty, to keep whole the link between east and west.’

‘Charibon then. What news?’

‘Ah - there I have something a little more tangible. The Himerian armies are breaking up winter quarters as I speak. They will be on the march within a fortnight I would hazard, or as soon as the Torrin Gap is free of the last drifts. The Thurian Line is awash with marching men.’

‘It has begun then,’ Corfe breathed. ‘After all this time, the curtain has risen.’

‘I believe so, sire.’

‘What of the Fimbrians?’

‘No word as yet. They are playing a waiting game. The Pact of Neyr may have broadcast their neutrality to the world, but they will have to climb down from their fence sooner or later.’

‘If this yet-unseen fleet manages to make landfall it could well make up their minds for them.’

‘And it will also mean a two-front war.’

‘Yes of course.’

‘I trust, sire, that all your preparations are in hand?’

‘The principal field army awaits only my word to march, and General Aras has the northern garrison on alert at Gaderion. You will let me know as soon as anything happens?’

‘Of course, sire. May I convey to you the compliments and greetings of your Royal cousin Abeleyn of Hebrion? And now I must go.’

The bird’s wings exploded into a flurry of feathers and it took off like a loosed clothyard, soaring up into the spring blue. Corfe watched it go, frowning.

‘So that was Golophin - or his familiar, at least,’ Mirren said, eyes bright. ‘The great Hebrian mage. I’ve heard so much about him.’

‘Yes. He’s a good man, though his years are beginning to tell on him now. He took it hard, his apprentice going the way he did.’

‘Ah, the Presbyter of the Knights. Is it true he is a werewolf as well as a mage?’

Corfe looked at his daughter closely. ‘Someone has been listening at keyholes.’

Mirren flushed. ‘It is common folklore, no more.’

‘Then you will know that our world is threatened by an unholy trinity. Himerius the anti-Pontiff, Aruan the sorcerer, now Vicar-General of the Inceptine Order, and Bardolin, another arch-mage, who is Presbyter of the Knights Militant. And yes, this Bardolin is rumoured to be a shifter. He was Golophin’s friend, and brightest pupil. Now he is Aruan’s creature, body and soul. And Aruan is the greatest of the three, for all that he has the lesser rank in the eyes of the world.’

‘They say that Aruan is an immortal, the last survivor of an ancient race of men who arose in the west, but who destroyed themselves in ages past with dabbling in black sorcery,’ Mirren whispered.

‘They
say a great deal, but for once there is a nubbin of truth under all the tall tales. This Aruan came out of nowhere scarcely six years ago now, landing at Alsten Island with a few followers in strange-looking ships. Himerius at once recognised him as some kind of messianic prodigy and admitted him to the highest circles of power. He claims to be some form of harbinger of a better age of the world. He is immensely old, that we know, but as for the lost race of conjurors - well, that’s a myth, I’m sure. In any case, he has the armies of Perigraine and Almark and half a dozen other principalities to call upon, as well as the Orders of the Knights Militant and the mysterious Hounds. The Second Empire, as this unholy combine is known, is a fact of our waking world—’

‘The Fimbrians,’ Mirren interrupted. ‘What will they do?’

‘Ah, there’s the rub. Which way will the Electorates jump? They’ve been hankering after a rekindling of their hegemony ever since the fall of Aekir, but this new thearchy has stymied them. I’m not sure. We will be fighting for the self-determination of all the Ramusian kingdoms, and that is not something the Fimbrians would particularly like to see. On the other hand, they do not want to watch the Himerians become invincible, either. I reckon they’ll wait it out until we and Charibon have exhausted ourselves, and then step in like hyenas to pick over the bones.’

‘I’ve never known a war,’ Mirren said with uncharacteristic timidity. She stroked the marmoset which perched on her shoulder. ‘What is it like, Father?’

Corfe stared out over the barren swells of the upland moors. Sixteen years ago, this quiet emptiness had been the epicentre of a roaring holocaust. If he tried, he was sure he would hear the thunder of the cannon echoing still, as it echoed always in the dark, hungry spaces of his mind.

‘War is a step over the threshold of hell,’ he said at last. ‘I pray you never experience it first hand.’

‘But you were a great general - you commanded armies -you were a conqueror.’

Corfe looked down at her coldly. ‘I was fighting for survival. There’s a difference.’

She was undaunted. ‘And this next war - it also is about survival, is it not?’

‘Yes. Yes, it is. We have not sought this battle; it has been thrust upon us - remember that.’ His voice was sombre as that of a mourner.

But the hunger and the darkness within him were crowing and cackling with glee.

Three

‘The birds,’ said Abeleyn. ‘They follow the ships.’

Over the fleet hung a cloud of raucous gulls, thousands of them. They wheeled and swooped madly and their unending shrieks hurt the air, carrying over even the creak of timber, the smash of keel striking water, the groan of rope and yard.

‘Scavengers,’ Admiral Rovero called out from the quarterdeck below. ‘But it’s strange, is it not, to see them so far out from land.’

‘I have never seen it before. The odd one, yes, but not flocks like these,’ Hawkwood told him.

All down the four levels of the spar deck - forecastle, waist, quarterdeck, poop - soldiers and sailors were staring upwards, past the cracking, bellied sails, the straining yards, the bewildering complexities of the rigging. The gulls circled tirelessly, screaming.

Below them the flagship shouldered aside the swell with a beautiful easy motion. The
Pontifidad
was a tall man-of-war of twelve hundred tons with seven hundred men on board, and eighty long guns which were now bowsed up tight against the closed portlids like captured beasts straining for their liberty. A floating battery of immense destructive power, she was the largest warship in the western world, the pride of the Hebrian navy.

And she may not be enough, Abeleyn thought. She and all her mighty consorts, the assembled might of four nations. What are men and ships compared to—

‘Sail ho!’ the lookout yelled down from the main topgallant yard. ‘A caravel coming out of the eye of the wind, fine on the larboard beam.’

‘Our reconnaissance returns,’ Hawkwood said. ‘With what news I wonder?’

The knot of men stood on the poop deck of the
Pontifidad
and awaited the approaching ship calmly. Two days before a small squadron had been sent out to the west to reconnoitre while the fleet beat up round the headland now safely astern.

Admiral Rovero called up to the lookout from the quarterdeck. ‘How many sail there?’

‘Still just the one, sir. She’s got a fore topsail carried away and I see braces on her flying loose.’

Abeleyn and Hawkwood looked at one another.

‘What do you think, Captain?’ Abeleyn asked.

Hawkwood rubbed a hand through the peppery tangle of his beard. ‘I think the squadron may well have found what it was looking for.’

‘My thoughts also.’

Admiral Rovero thumped up the companionway to the poop and saluted his monarch. ‘Sire, there’s no one to be seen on her deck. It smells bad to me. Permission to beat to quarters.’

‘Granted, Rovero. Captain Hawkwood, I believe we should signal the allied contingents. Enemy to nor’-west. Clear for action.’

‘Aye, sir.’

Over several square miles of ocean, the fleet came to urgent, scurrying life. Fifty-three great ships and dozens of smaller carracks and caravels were travelling north-east with the breeze broad on their larboard beam. The solitary caravel, a small vessel gauging no more than a hundred tons, ran headlong before the wind towards their gaping broadsides.

The fleet was in a rough arrowhead formation. The point was formed of Hebrian ships, the largest contingent. The left barb belonged to the Gabrionese, eleven lean, well-manned vessels with crews of superb seamen. The right barb consisted of the Astarans: larger ships, but less experienced crews. And the shank of the arrowhead was made up of the Sea-Merduks. Their vessels were lighter, as were their guns, but they were crowded with arquebusiers and buckler-men.

All told, over thirty thousand men rode the waves this bright spring morning, fifty leagues off the west coast of Hebrion. It was the biggest conglomeration of naval power the world had yet seen, and its assembling had been the patient work of years. Ten days now they had been cruising westwards together, having rendezvoused off the Hebrian coast a fortnight since. All for this one day, this moment in time. This bright spring morning on the swells of the Western Ocean.

The stink of slow-match drifted up to Abeleyn from the gun deck, along with the sweat of the sailors as they hauled the huge guns outboard so that their muzzles protruded from the ship’s sides like blunt spikes. Above him, in the tops, soldiers were loading the wicked little two-pounder swivels, ramming loads down the barrels of their arquebuses, hauling up buckets of seawater to fight the inevitable fires that would catch in the sails.

The caravel was less than three cables away now, and careering directly for the flagship. There was no one at her tiller, but her course was unerring.

‘I don’t like this. That’s a dead ship with a live helm,’ Rovero said. ‘Sire, permission to blow her out of the water.’

Abeleyn paused in thought, and for a moment could have sworn that the regard of all those hundreds of sailors and soldiers and marines was fastened upon him alone. At last he said: ‘Granted, Admiral.’

The signal pennants went up, and moments later the massed ordnance of the fleet began to thunder out, awesome as the wrath of God.

The caravel disappeared in a murderous storm of spuming water. Hawkwood saw timbers flying high in the air, a mast lurch and topple enmeshed in rigging. Cannonballs fell short and overshot, but enough were on target to smash the little vessel to kindling. When it reappeared it was a dismasted hulk, low in the water and surrounded by debris. The gulls shrieked overhead as the smoke and roar of the broadsides died away.

‘I hope to God we were right,’ Admiral Rovero murmured. ‘Look at her decks!’ someone yelled from the masthead. Men crowded the ship’s rail, impatient for the powder smoke to clear. The knot of officers on the poop were higher up, and thus saw it before the sailors in the waist.

Cockroaches? Hawkwood thought. My God.

As the caravel settled, black, shining things were clambering up out of her hatches and taking to the sea, for all the world like some aquatic swarm of beetles. A horrified buzz ran through the ship as the men glimpsed them.

‘Back to your stations!’ Hawkwood roared. ‘This is a king’s ship, not a pleasure yacht! Bosun - start that man by the cathead.’

The beetle figures tried to clasp on to the wreckage of the caravel, but it was in its death throes, circling stern-first down into a foaming grave and sucking most of them down with it. Soon there was nothing left on the surface of the sea but a few bobbing fragments of wreckage.

A yelp of pain as the bosun brought a knotted rope’s end down on some unfortunate’s back. The men returned to their battle-stations, but their whispering could be heard like a low surf from the poop.

They captured our squadron, and obviously are aware of our location,’ Admiral Rovero said.

Whatever
they
are, Abeleyn thought. But he nodded in agreement. ‘That is what we wanted, after all. We cannot cruise indefinitely. The enemy must come to us.’ He turned to Hawkwood, and lowered his voice. ‘Captain, the things in that ship. Have you—?’