Hunt the Space-Witch! (10 page)

The
Garyun
was lying becalmed not far off Korduna, where the Sea-Lords had paid their annual tribute call. Korduna was one of the largest of the floating cities, and the
Dhuchay'y
had taken care to stock it with many of sunken Terra's fauna; the Kordunans were meat-purveyors to the world. It had been Gowyn's practice to exact tribute in meat, rather than gold, and Dovirr had seen the wisdom of that; a year's supply of barrelled pork and other meats was brought aboard and stored in the capacious hold of the
Garyun
.

Dovirr spent much of his time studying maps, familiarizing himself with the location of the floating cities, marking off the domains of his rival Thalassarchs, planning, thinking. It was while he thus occupied himself, with his charts spread out on a broad table on the bridge deck, that Lysigon came to him. The Sea-Lord stood before him, in full battle dress.

“What means the dress, Lysigon?” Dovirr asked casually, glancing up at the Sea-Lord and quickly back down at his charts. “Surely no trouble beckons—or do you know of battle before my lookout?”

“Look out for yourself, landworm!” Lysigon crashed an armored fist down on the table, disturbing the charts. Dovirr rose instantly.

“What want you, Lysigon?”

“Lord
Lysigon.
Thalassarch
Lysigon. I've stood your usurpation long enough, man of Vythain.”

Dovirr fingered the edge of the table. Flicking a quick glance back of the angry Sea-Lord, he saw a handful of others—all, like Lysigon, full-blooded Sea-Lords—skulking in the background near the rigging. His flesh grew cold; was this a carefully-nurtured assassination plot?

Evenly, he said: “I order you to get out of armor, Lysigon. The
Garyun
is not threatened at the moment. And I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue, or I'll have you flayed with a micro-knife and rubbed in salt!”

“Strong words, boy. Worthy of Gowyn—but for the strength that does not back them! Tonight the Seaborn feast on you; tomorrow, I captain the
Garyun.
”

Lysigon unsheathed his sword. It hung shimmering in the air for an instant; then he lunged. At the same moment Dovirr smoothly up-ended the work-table.

The keen sword splintered wood. Cursing, Lysigon struggled to extricate it from the table—and, as he fought to free his weapon, Dovirr laughingly dashed his ink-pot into the Sea-Lord's face. Sepia squid-extract stained the proud seaman's fiery beard. He bellowed with rage, abandoned his blade, and charged blindly forward.

Dovirr deftly sidestepped around the table as the maddened Lysigon clanged against it. The Sea-Lord rebounded; Dovirr was waiting for him. Unarmed, unarmored, Dovirr paused in readiness by the bowsprit.

“Here I am, Lysigon,” he sang softly.

Lysigon charged. Dovirr absorbed the impact, stepped back, bent, seized one of Lysigon's legs. The Sea-Lord toppled heavily to the deck, landing with a crash that brought some twenty men and a few women topside to see what was going on.

The humiliated Sea-Lord crawled toward Dovirr. With a mocking laugh the Thalassarch trampled Lysigon's outstretched hand. Dovirr was biding his time, waiting for word to travel that a fight was taking place on top deck. The crew was gathering. Lysigon's four cohorts held back.

“What do you ask of me, Lysigon? That I appoint you Thalassarch in my place?” His foot thumped ringingly against the Sea-Lord's armor. Lysigon responded with a strangled roar and leaped to his feet.

Dovirr met the charge evenly, took Lysigon's weight with a smooth roll of his body, and smashed his fist into the Sea-Lord's face. Lysigon stumbled backward; Dovirr hit him again, knocking him up against the bow. “To your kingdom, Lysigon!” he yelled, seizing the Sea-Lord's feet. A quick upward flip and the hapless mate vanished over the side.

There was a howl, a splash—and silence. In full armor, Lysigon sank like an anchor. Dovirr, unscratched, nodded to his audience.

“Lysigon desired to rule the sea. He now has the opportunity—at close range.”

The onlookers responded with silence. It was the complete hush of utter awe—and from that moment, Dovirr Stargan was unquestioned Thalassarch of the Western Sea.

The cycle of days rolled on, filling out the year. Dovirr had taken over Gowyn's logbooks, and spent odd hours reading of the late Thalassarch's many triumphs. Gowyn had filled a long row of books; the last of them was only barely begun, and already a new hand had entered much: the death of Gowyn, the conquest of Lysigon, visits to many ports.

It was difficult for Dovirr to convince himself that not yet a year had passed since the day he had waited hesitantly at the Vythain pier. A year—and three of the mocking Sea-Lords who had called on Vythain that day lay at the seabottom, two sent there by Dovirr's own hand.

He who had never left Vythain once in his eighteen years now roamed two seas, with nine ships of his own and eight of Harald's claiming allegiance. Dovirr felt his body growing hard, his muscles quickening to split-second tone and his skin toughening. Occasionally, he took a hand in the galleys, tugging at his oar next to some sweating knave for whom a life at sea was constant hardship. Dovirr drank in the days;
this
was the life.

He wondered occasionally about the days before the
Dhuchay'y
had come. What was Terra like, with its proud cities now slimy with sea-things? He envisioned a race of giants, each man with the strength of a Sea-Lord.

And then he saw that he was wrong. The
Dhuchay'y
could never have conquered such a race. No; the Terrans must have been meek landworms of the sort that spawned in Vythain, else the aliens from the stars would have been thrown back.

Anger rose fiercely in him, and he strode to the bridge at nightfall to stare upward and shake his fist at the unblinking stars.

Somewhere among those dots of white and red and blue dwelt the
Dhuchay'y
. Dovirr, wearing the mantle of the dead Gowyn, would scowl at the stars with bitter hatred.
Come back, star-things! Come back—and give me a chance to destroy you!

But the stars made no reply. Dovirr would turn away wearily, and return to his charts. He was learning the way of the sea. Later, perhaps, the
Dhuchay'y
would come. Dovirr was used to waiting long for what he most desired.

Chapter Four

At year's end, a pleasant task arrived. According to Gowyn's logbook, time had come to return to Vythain to demand tribute. This would be sweet, Dovirr thought.

He studied Gowyn's log-entry for this date a year earlier:

“Fifth of Eighthmonth, 3261. Today we return to Vythain for the gold. The wind is good; course holds true. Below-decks, I fear, Levrod has been murmuring against me
.…

“Sixth of Eighthmonth, 3261. Collection of tribute without difficulty at Vythain, as usual. Upon departure, we were accosted by a good-looking Vythainan boy. He humiliated Levrod in hand-to-hand combat, and killed him at my orders. I took the Vythainan aboard ship. I like him.…
”

Smiling, Dovirr looked up from the dead Thalassarch's log. Ahead, on the horizon, he could see the growing dot that was Vythain. Even now, perhaps, old Lackthan was calling out the news that the Sea-Lords approached; even now, terror would be sweeping through the city as the poor landworms awaited the
Garyun
's approach. How they dreaded it! How they feared that the Sea-Lords would, for sport, sack the city while they were in harbor!

They drew into Vythain Harbor early next day. Dovirr ordered the dinghy put over the side, and, picking six men to accompany him, set out for shore.

He stood, one foot on the seat, in the prow of the little craft, peering intently at the city of his birth. He could see tiny figures moving on the pier—police officers clearing away the passersby, no doubt.

The sea was calm; tiny wavelets licked at the dinghy's sides as it slid through the water to the pier. They drew up slowly. Dovirr grinned at the sight of the familiar carven steps, the pile of buildings set back from the shore and rising to the bright stone of Lackthan's spy-tower.

He was the first one over the side and onto the pier when the dinghy docked. His six men arrayed themselves at his sides, and they waited regally for the tribute.

A few tense moments passed. Then, with faltering step, the eight old men began their procession down the rough-hewn steps of Vythain, groaning under the weight of coffers as they came.

Dovirr folded his arms and waited.

In the lead was Councilman Morgrun, looking even more old and shrunken than before. His eyes, deep-set in a baggy network of wrinkles, were filmed over with rheum; he was staggering under the heavy coffer, barely able to manage it. “Ho there, Morgrun,” Dovirr cried suddenly. “Scuttle forward and greet your new Thalassarch!”

He laughed. Morgrun lifted his head.

The Councilman emitted a tiny gasp and nearly dropped the coffer.
“Dovirr!
”

“Your memory has not failed you yet, I see, old one. Yes, Dovirr!”

The eight Councilmen drew near, lowered their coffers to the concrete, and huddled together in a puzzled clump. Finally Morgrun said, “This is some joke of Gowyn's. He seeks to humble us by sending this runaway boy.”

Dovirr spat. “I should have you hurled to the sea for that, Morgrun. Gowyn lies dead off the edge of Harald's sea; Harald lies beside him.
I
rule both Thalassarchies!”

The Councilman stared at him, sneering at first, then, seeing the unquestionable authority in his eyes, sinking to their knees, jaws working without producing speech. Dovirr smiled broadly, relishing the moment. “Into the dinghy with the money,” he ordered. “No—wait. Open the nearest coffer.”

A coffer was opened. Dovirr snatched an ingot, looked at it, sardonically sniffed it. “Morgrun, is the gold pure?”

“Of course, Dov—sire.”

“Good.” Dovirr stepped forward and lifted Morgrun's bowed head gently with the tip of his boot. “Tell me, Councilman—how goes it in Vythain? I have been somewhat out of touch, this past year. What of old Lackthan, the spyman?”

“Dead, sire.”

“Dead, at last? Too bad; I would have enjoyed watching him discover who had succeeded Gowyn. Has the dredging gone well this year?”

“Poorly. You have taken nearly all our gold in the tribute, sire.”

“A pity. You'll have to squeeze some unfortunate neighbor-city of yours to make up the loss, won't you?”

A chill wind swept over the pier suddenly. Dovirr gathered his cloak about him. It was time to return to the ship, he thought; the fun here had been about wrung dry.

Morgrun glanced up. “Sire?”

“What is it, Morgrun?”

“Sire, have you heard aught out of Vostrok?”

Dovirr frowned. Vostrok was a northern city, one of the largest on the sea's surface. Vythain depended on it for its wood; Vostrok had Terra's finest forest, and from its trees had come most of the planet's ships.

“We were expecting wood from Vostrok,” Morgrun continued. “It has not come. We pay our tribute, sire, and—”

“We do our job,” Dovirr said coldly. “But there have been no distress signals coming from Vostroki vessels. Have you called them?”

“We have.” Alien sub-radio channels still were in operation between the floating cities. “Sire, there is no answer.
There is no answer!
”

Dovirr glanced at Kubril, his first officer. “This is strange. Perhaps Vostrok is planning rebellion, Kubril. It might bear investigation.”

To Morgrun, he said: “We will go to Vostrok, old one. Don't fear for your wood.”

Vostrok was the northernmost city of those Dovirr had inherited from Gowyn; it floated in high, choppy seas almost a week's journey from Vythain.

The course called for the
Garyun
to make another tribute call, but Dovirr decided to make for Vostrok at once, and ordered the
Ithamil
, one of his second-line ships which he encountered en route, to make the tribute pickup instead. The
Garyun
proceeded steadily northward, through increasingly rough waters. Crowds of the Seaborn attended the ship; moodily, Dovirr watched the flukes of the once-men churning in the dark waters.

On the fourth day an off-duty deckhand harpooned a Seaborn. Dovirr angrily ordered the man microflayed, then relented and merely put him on half-rations for a week. There was, it seemed, an instinctive hatred alive between the men of the
Garyun
and the Seaborn.

Dovirr felt none of it himself; he had been unable to share in the merriment over the predicament of the tortured creature on the deck, feeling only sympathy. He realized that, for all his dominion, he was actually still a landman at heart. By sheer strength, he had bulled his way to the eminence of a Sea-Lord's standing, but yet the men of the
Garyun
sometimes seemed as alien to him in way and thought as the flashing creatures of the deep.

The sea grew steadily rougher, and cold squalls began to blow; heavy clouds lay like sagging balloons over the water, dark and gray-shot. Dovirr bided his time, as the
Garyun
sailed northward. Vostrok had broken off contact with Vythain, eh?

Strange, he thought. That could mean many things.

At the end of the week, the
Garyun
entered Vostrok harbor. The city was much like all the others, only larger. According to Gowyn's notes, Vostrok had been the central base of the
Dhuchay'y
during the occupation of Terra centuries ago.

Dovirr ordered the anchor dropped half a league off-shore. Calling his officers about him, he stared uneasily toward the waiting city.

“Well?” Kubril asked. “Do we go ashore?”

Dovirr frowned. He wore his finest cuirass and a bold red-plumed helmet; his men likewise were armored. “I like not the looks of this city. I see no men on the pier. Hand me the glass, Liggyal.”

The seaman handed the glass to Dovirr, who focussed it on the distant shore. Tensely, he studied the area about the pier.