Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (32 page)

 
          
As
if to emphasize his point, he barked a further command in his own language and
the
Sea Dancer
swung to port, her deck canting. Calandryll braced
against the roll and kept his footing. Bracht shouted and lost his hold on the
arbalest, falling to the deck and sliding across the planks to fetch up against
the taffrail. Ek'Jemm chuckled; Bracht hauled himself upright. His pallor had
returned and Calandryll realized that he was less recovered from the malaise
than his actions suggested. Willpower had brought him to the poop and it was determination
that now blazed furiously from the dulled tan of his face as he drew the sword.

 
          
It
seemed to amuse ek'Jemm: a thick-lipped smile creased his plump cheeks and he
nodded as if in appreciation of the Kem's courage. Then Calandryll saw him
gesture with his left hand and the helmsman turned the wheel a trifle more. It
was only a small adjustment in the great hoop's revolution, but it tilted the
deck at an even greater angle. Calandryll himself staggered, arms flailing as
he struggled to retain his balance; Bracht was flung hard against the rail,
almost losing his blade as he teetered, close to toppling over into the waves.
Calandryll slithered across the deck to snatch a handful of his leather shirt
and drag the freesword back to safety. Close up, the Kem's tan was once again
tinted with green, his forehead and upper lip glistening with a fine sheen of
feverish sweat. The two sailors manning the arbalest came nimbly across the
planks, wide, curve-bladed swords in their hands.

 
          
Bracht
turned to face them, tearing loose of Calandryll's grip, and found himself
sliding backwards again.

 
          
"No
doubt a freesword like you could carve both my fellows on land," ek'Jemm
said, "But you stand on the deck of my craft and here you don't stand a
chance. Now sheath that Burash-damned blade!"

 
          
Calandryll
saw that it was useless to protest or fight: he nodded to Bracht, reaching out
to steady the Kem.

 
          
Reluctantly—and
not without difficulty—Bracht slid the falchion into its scabbard. Ek'Jemm
spoke to the helmsman and the
Sea Dancer
righted, the deck flattening
again. Calandryll and Bracht stood shoulder to shoulder against the taffrail,
facing the two armed sailors. Ek'Jemm shouted and two more swordsmen came
scurrying up the companionway.

 
          
"Under
the sea laws of
Kandahar
I could hang you for that," said the captain, "but I won't. I
admire your courage, if not your stupidity. Now go below."

 
          
Four
weapons gave threatening weight to his command: Calandryll and Bracht had
little chance but to obey.

 
          
The
four sailors prodded them down the ladder and back into the bowels of the ship.
The cabin door banged shut and they heard a bolt slide home. Bracht flung
himself furiously onto his bunk, his pallor hidden beneath a dark flush of
anger. Calandryll bent across him to peer from the window. The angle of the
Sea
Dancer's
course afforded him sight of the pursuing warboat. It was closer
now, no longer a speck but a distinct shape, visible to the naked eye: he
wondered how long it would take to catch them. He fell onto his own bunk,
staring at Bracht.

 
          
The
Kern lay with his hands folded across his stomach, eyes fixed on the boards
above, his hawkish features set in harsh lines. Calandryll said, "There
was nothing else we could do. He'd have ordered us killed had we refused."

 
          
Bracht
snorted and rolled on his side, presenting his back to Calandryll. The younger
man opened his mouth to speak again, but then thought better of it, holding
silent as he stretched out, staring helplessly at the planks above him: there
seemed nothing they could do save wait; that, and hope.

 
          
The
day passed slowly. The
Sea Dancer
altered course from time to time,
tacking in forlorn hope of using the steadily decreasing wind, the warboat
intermittently visible, still some distance off, but clearly narrowing the gap
between the two vessels. Around
noon
a silent Mehemmed brought them food and
fresh water, and Bracht took more of the nostrum. Calandryll wished he had a
book, but contented himself with a careful study of the map.

 
          
"You
waste your time," Bracht said, irritable.

 
          
"Perhaps,"
Calandryll returned, himself irked by his comrade's sullen attitude,
"Perhaps not."

 
          
Bracht
rose on one elbow to peer from the window. "It's closer," he said.
"Before long it'll overhaul us and that fat coward will hand us over."

 
          
Calandryll
set the map aside, kneeling on Bracht's bunk to study the warboat. It was,
indeed, closer: he could see the black rectangle of the sail, like the vessel
of his dream, clear against the blue of the afternoon sky, the sleek hull
below, curving up to the figurehead.

 
          
"It's
a sea dragon," he murmured.

 
          
"What?"
Bracht frowned.

 
          
"The
prow—it's carved in the shape of a sea dragon."

 
          
Bracht
grunted.

 
          
"If
he does," Calandryll said softly, "I'll toss the satchel overboard.
The coin it holds is weighty enough to sink it—at least Azumandias won't get
the map."

 
          
"He'll
have us instead," Bracht said.

 
          
"So?"

 
          
Calandryll
regained his bunk as the
Dancer
turned, fighting the fear the Kem's flat
statement roused; affecting calm.

 
          
"So
you've studied the chart," Bracht said, "and doubtless it's fixed in
that scholar's mind of yours. And Azumandias is a warlock—of great power,
Varent said. Do you not think he'll use magic to leech the knowledge from
you?"

 
          
Calandryll
swallowed hard: that possibility had not occurred to him. He licked his lips
nervously. There were sages claimed that a man's mind retained all he saw, all
he read; that every experience of his life was kept within some indefinable
mental receptacle. And he had done his best to memorize the chart. If the
sages—if Bracht—were right, then Azumandias
would
draw out that
knowledge: he could not resist magic.

 
          
He
nodded, steeling himself, and said, "Then I must go down with it."

 
          
Bracht
stared at him.

 
          
"That's
a thing said easier than it's done."

 
          
"Azumandias
must not gain the chart," he said fiercely. "He must not find the way
to Tez. He'll likely kill us, anyway. That, or something worse. I'd sooner
drown than let him raise the Mad God."

 
          
"Noble
sentiments," Bracht murmured, and for a moment Calandryll wondered if he
mocked, "but perhaps there's another way."

 
          
"What?
We're prisoners here, unarmed. What other way is there?"

 
          
"The
stone," Bracht said, "and Varent's spell."

 
          
Calandryll
frowned, shaking his head.

 
          
"What
good invisibility?"

 
          
"If
ek'Jemm proposes to hand us over, he'll likely have us brought on deck. The ...
poop's? ... the most likely place—from there we'll be in clear sight. Use the
stone and disappear! Hide. This tub's large enough a man who can't be seen
should be able to hide."

 
          
"And
you?"

 
          
Bracht
shrugged, white teeth exposed in a cold gnn.

 
          
"I'm
a Kem freesword hired to escort you. I can't read; I've not studied the map.
What can I tell Azumandias, save what he already knows?"

 
          
"He'll
kill you," Calandryll said.

 
          
"Probably,
but it appears I face death whichever way I turn."

 
          
"He'll
know," Calandryll protested. "He'll know there's magic afoot."

 
          
Again
Bracht shrugged.

 
          
"But
perhaps he'll not be able to find you. Who knows? Perhaps he'll send ek'Jemm to
the bottom and you'll drown anyway. Perhaps he'll choose to let the ship go—
hope to hunt you down in
Kandahar
. It seems the only chance we have."

 
          
"I
have," Calandryll corrected.

 
          
"The
only chance to prevent Azumandias laying hands on the chart, then. It's worth
taking."

 
          
Calandryll
nodded; reluctantly.

 
          
"Yes."

 
          
"Be
ready," said the Kem, and stretched back on the bunk, closing his eyes.

 
          
Calandryll
fingered the red stone at his throat. It was cold to the touch and when he
raised it he saw only a glassy ovoid like an overlarge, crimson teardrop, a
hint of flame faint within its depths. He tucked it back beneath his shirt and
folded the map back inside the satchel as he pondered Bracht's suggestion. It
was a desperate plan— and one, it seemed to him, that had little chance of
success—but it was, as the Kem had pointed out, the only one they had
alternative to his suicide. Perhaps he
would
be able to hide on the
Sea
Dancer,
and if Azumandias wanted the map, the warlock was unlikely to risk
sending it down with a sinking ship. But could he evade the wizard's magic?
Would the spell Varent had taught him conceal him from occult investigation?
That he could not know until the time came.

 
          
He
studied Bracht, abruptly melancholy. It seemed the mercenary was prepared to
die, leaving him a chance to live, to continue their mission, and the thought
of going on without the blunt-spoken freesword depressed him. For all Bracht's
doubts, for all his mistrust of Varent, he had come to like the Kem. He truly
believed the man was one of the comrades foretold by Reba. He sighed, remembering
the spaewife's warning that water offered danger: had he sacrificed properly to
Burash, might they have avoided this impasse? Was it his omission had brought
them to this point? He sighed again and stretched out on the bunk, the satchel
for a pillow.

           
He realized that he
had drowsed when the door opened to admit Mehemmed with the evening meal. The
cabin was dark, and when he looked to the window, the warboat

was lost in the night.

        
   
"It's still there," said the young
sailor. "Closer now. I think that by dawn they'll be within hailing
distance."

           
His voice was carefully
neutral, as though he feared to show any hint of weakness to the seaman
Calandryll saw stood just beyond the hatch, but there was a flicker of sympathy
in his eyes and he smiled as he set the tray down.

 
          
"Will
your captain use his arbalests?" Bracht asked.

 
          
Mehemmed
shrugged, the movement conveying all such responsibilities to his captain, and
ducked out of the cabin. The door closed and the bolt thudded home. Calandryll
saw that a flask of wine was included among the items on the tray: he filled
the two mugs, passing one to

 
          
Bracht.                                                                                             
,

 
          
The
Kem grunted his thanks, dosing himself with the nostrum before downing the
alcohol.