The Dark Glory War (25 page)

“And you, Mistress Seethe.”

“Seethe is enough. Adult honorifics are denied Vorquelves.”

I caught no anger or regret in her voice, just a calm recitation of facts. “Would you mind if I asked how you came to join us? I mean, from your name, it is so like Resolute’s, that I would have thought you would have remained behind as he did.”

She laughed lightly and pulled a lock of hair away from where the wind had strung it against her mouth. “I was told it was my destiny to go, much as you were. Oracle, the elf your friend touched, is my sister. She told me I would be accompanying you. The prospect seemed to no more please her than it did me, but prophecy is prophecy.”

“I am glad you have come along.” I picked at the railing with my thumbnail. “Oracle’s name seems descriptive of what she is, and Resolute as well. How did you get your names? You don’t seem that angry.”

“You’ve not seen me when I am angry, but you will.” Her eyes half closed as she smiled sidelong at me. “Some of us are given our names, some of us take them. You have to understand that when an elf is born in one of the homelands, she is tied to that homeland forever. When we are ritually bound to the homeland, we enter a pact with the land that provides us power but demands of us responsibility. The conquest of Vorquellyn barred those of us who were too young from ever becoming bonded to our homeland, isolating us from power.”

She pointed off at the Vilwanese vessel. “Magick and magickal power are tricky things. Heslin will tell you that when he completed his training he was given another name, a secret name. Think of it as a key that unlocks a doorway to power. For him it is a small key and a small doorway, but that is enough for him. When we are bonded to our land, we, too, get a secret name that lets us access power. The names, of course, remain secret, because anyone who knows our secret name gains a certain amount of power over us.

“The Vorquelves who were bonded to the island were in great pain when they were driven from it. They headed west, always west. It is believed, among us, that there are many worlds and that when we move from this one we will find another where elves dwell. If that is the world meant for us, we will stay and flourish. If not, we will move on to the next world and the world beyond that, forever seeking our true home. Being unbonded, we were denied this ability to travel to these otherwheres. Since that is very much the essence of being an elf, we are not elves.”

She sighed. “We have chosen names from the human common tongue, names that define us. We make these names known because taking that risk opens to us greater avenues of power than would a secret name. It is a dangerous game, of course, but our power offers us some protection.”

“If you have that much power, why don’t you just take Vorquellyn again?”

She stared out to sea and shook her head. “Different people use their power in different ways. Amends seeks conciliation and cooperation. Oracle peers into the future. Predator squanders his power in an effort to control an urban swamp. Resolute uses his to kill and kill and kill. And you are right, I’m not far removed from him, for my goal is to kill and kill and kill. But, the various directions we all take divides our power and does not let us direct it at the goal we all profess to cherish.”

As we spoke the convoy slid past the thickly jungled fastness of Vael. Tall peaks rose along the narrow island’s central spine, with their grey tips piercing the clouds that gathered around them. None of the mariners on the trip could tell us much about the island, save that it was home to dragons and panqui. Panqui were supposed to be hulking, semüntelligent beasts that were said to have been created by dragons as a parody of men. Panqui lived peacefully in the mountain fastnesses dragons stole from the urZrethi, or so the old tales went, with the panqui proving powerful enough on the defensive to make them too difficult for men to fight, thereby insulating dragons from human expeditions.

The stories sailors told of panqui pirates certainly did make them sound very fierce, but all the tales were at one remove, with none of the speakers ever having seen a panqui, much less having fought one. I really had no desire to see pirate galleys full of armed and armored monsters coming at us, especially when those same creatures were favored by dragons. Even so, I kept my eyes sweeping over Vael in the vain hopes I might spot something unusual.

I saw nothing and was disappointed, not realizing that in the days to come, seeing nothing would have been welcome indeed.

The third day at sea took us east of the island of Wruona. It was a well-known pirate haven with tricky shoals and hidden coves that made clearing it out very difficult. We slid past without incident, but Lord Norrington noted that if the Wruonin freebooters had reached an accommodation with Chytrine, chances were very good that they might usearcan-slata to let her know we were on our way.

I took it as a good thing, then, that later that day, as the sun began to set, two silvery Loquellyn galleys moved to join us. The ships had been made of silverwood, a type of tree with silvery flesh that only grew in the elven homelands. Things made of it, like boxes or frames or chests or chairs were highly prized. They were seldom awarded to men, and only after the elves decided a man had performed a valuable service for them.

What I found most interesting about the Loquellyn ship was its form. Man-galleys resembled swans, after a fashion, in that they rode on the surface. The elven ship’s form mimicked that of the sea creature known as a shark. The ship’s prow sloped down into a broad ram that remained just below the water’s surface. One fighting tower rose in the center, just forward of the mast, and another in the aft. It had no oars visible in the water, but rowers occupied their places in the ship, same as they did in ours, and they even pulled long handles. I later learned the oars they pulled were attached to gears and belts that drove massive hidden paddlewheels to speed the ship along.

Dawn of the last day showed us just coming around the Loquellyn headlands. We’d skirt the Okrans coast on the west, then head north to Crozt. We had one more day to go, as the breeze from the south had allowed us to make a steady five knots an hour. The same journey by horse would have taken two weeks, and that would have been only if we’d not had mountains, rivers or other obstacles to contend with.

In the early afternoon, dark clouds began to gather to the north and the wind died. With the oars the ships still made headway, but debate soon began as to whether or not we should make for the coast and seek shelter in a harbor. Before that decision could be made, however, the spotters in the crow’s nests called down that they saw something else: Aurolani sails, full of wind, coming our way.

Orders were immediately given and everyone sprang into action. The merchantmen were dispatched with an escort of four galleys to head for a safe harbor. The rest of the fleet formed itself into a line and drove north to meet the approaching enemy. Buckets of water were drawn from the ocean and splashed over the decks to wet them down and make them less liable to burn if the enemy usednapthalm. And, conversely, our Mastermarine started to boil up some of the flammable liquid.

All the warriors on board donned their armor, and I almost went without greaves and bracers or my mail because if I fell in the water, I’d sink like a stone. A passing sailor, who apparently read my concern on my face, laughed and said,“You’ll not be swimming atall with a topped arm or chopped leg, so gird yourself well.” I followed his advice, then mounted the steps to the forecastle, arming myself with my bow.

Sailors hung steel shields along the wales and erected mantlets to ward them from enemy arrows. They armed themselves with shortswords and a couple had poleaxes, which they would use to chop through grappling lines from another ship. A squad of marines in heavy armor waited in the forecastle for our ship to ram into an Aurolani galley. Once the beak extended over the enemy deck, they’d boil forth and board the other ship. Then those of us atop the forecastle would cast grappling lines over and secure the ships together, allowing the rest of us to dash over and help the marines.

Crouched behind the tower wale, peeking out from between shields, I saw the enemy fleet looming closer. Their fleet consisted of some larger ships that would have seemed nothing more than buckets bobbing up and down, save that an evil red light glowed from within hatches and portholes, as if hellish fires burned in their bellies. Two dozen galleys made up the bulk of the fleet, twelve to a wing, and they spread out to try and flank our formation. Smaller boats, designed to be quick and highly maneuverable, occupied much of the center. Each of them seemed to have a ballista for shooting fiery missiles at us, a dozen archers, and twice that number of gibberers waiting to scramble up onto our ships and wreak havoc.

I glanced back at the aftdeck and saw Nay, all armored up and hefting his maul, standing with Lord Norrington. Of Leigh I saw nothing, but as sick as he’d been, it didn’t surprise me. If he’d been able to dress himself I would have been astonished, and that exertion would have worn him out so much that he couldn’t have lifted a sword.

Down below the captain bellowed orders. The sail was reefed, then drawn down completely. The speed-drums’ pounding quickened to help us close the distance with the enemy fleet. Lord Norrington shouted another order, which the sergeant on the forecastle repeated, bringing us archers to our feet. We sighted and let fly.

The crossbowmen loosed their volley at one of the big brigs. Gibberers on the foredeck pitched and reeled away. One creature near a ballista—a vylaen, I think—fell back, and his weight yanked the lanyard wrapped around his hand. The siege machine’s arm came up, hurling a stone in the air and, in a shorter, more shallow arc, the flailing form of the gibberer that had been loading the stone into the ballista likewise flew.

Since my bow did not have the range of the crossbows, I picked a closer target. I sank an arrow into the belly of a small boat’s helmsbeast. He stumbled back over the aft wale, grabbing at the tiller as he did so. His small ship swung quickly to the left, bringing it broadside to our surging line. The gibberer crew looked back to see what had happened, but before any of them could do anything to regain control of the ship, one of the elven galleys hit it amidships. The silverwood ship stove in the smaller ship’s side, snapped its keel, and scattered shattered pieces of flotsam in its wake.

The speed-drums quickened their booming pace again, hurling our ship forward at ramming speed. I loosed another arrow, this time hitting a brig crewman. I ducked back quickly as a return volley from the brig arced up at the forecastle, then nocked another arrow, stood, and shot. We were so close I saw black blood splash on a white oak deck as the arrow pierced a gibberer’s neck.

Then theInvictus slammed full on into the brig, throwing me forward against the rail. Our beak snapped the brig’s wales, crushing one gibberer and battering others aside with wooden shrapnel. Below us marines screamed inhuman war cries and boiled out along the beak, leaping down to the enemy deck. Weapons drawn they began dealing death, with the rest of us shooting as fast as we could.

The Battle of the Crescent Sea had been joined.

I could tell you that arrows flew so thick that they blackened the sky, but the fast-approaching clouds did an admirable job of that all by themselves. Arrows and quarrels instead zipped about like lightning, striking a man here or there. Black shafts covered the forecastle like quills on a stickle-hog. An arrow clanged off my helm, dropping me to the deck. A man landed next to me, two arrows quivering in his chest, and another reeled away with an arrow in his eye and fell over the railing to the deck.

It took a moment or two for me to shake my head and clear it. In that time I managed to look west along our line. Ships burned in the distance, and I could not make out if they were ours or those of the enemy. Closer I saw the smaller Aurolani ships closing with our galleys, launching grappling hooks up over the wales. Sailors on theInvictus hacked at the lines attached to them with poleaxes, but the grapnels fixed with stout chain did not break, and gibberers began to swarm up over the deck.

Lord Norrington and Nay descended from the aftcastle and attacked the boarders savagely. Lord Norrington’s silvery blade flashed left and right, cleaving ribs and flesh, laying open bellies and slicing through fanged muzzles. Blood sprayed from his blade in a wide arc. Wounded and dying gibberers clawed at severed limbs and clutched tightly at gaping holes in their flesh.

Nay laid about with his maul, employing all the power he might have used to hammer hot steel. A lunge would impale a gibberer on his spike, then he’d rip it free, parry a sword cut with the weapon’s haft, then snap the head down hard, crushing a shoulder or ribs. When he swept the blade low, knees twisted and popped, legs snapped like oars trapped between ships. War cries became painful howls as he crushed muzzles at a stroke.

I drew myself up on one knee and fitted arrow to bow, shooting into the swarms of gibberers pouring over the wales. Clear shots were not easy to find as the deck became choked with combatants. A quick twist between two wrestling fighters, and an arrow meant for a gibberer’s back might strike a sailor. I sought my targets among those just boarding the ship, or those seeking to slip behind my friends. The good thing was that I shot well, but the bad was that targets outnumbered my arrows.

I was about to draw my sword and leap down to the deck when I felt a wave of heat wash up over my back. I turned, fearing a bucket of flamingnapthalm had been splashed on the forecastle, but I saw no bright flames. Though the warmth built sharply, what I saw sank a chill into me.

A massively huge man-thing emerged from the brig’s hold, locking a colossal hand around the mast. The wood charred beneath its grip. It appeared to be a man—Nay’s size and then some—but its flesh was as black as cast iron. A shock of long red hair and a long red beard flowed from its head. All other color, from the burning intensity of its eyes to the places where shadows outlined the muscles of its bare arms, legs, and torso, was a purple so vibrant and deep it hurt to look at the thing.