Scimitar's Heir (11 page)

“You’re right on time,” Parek said with a grin as she scrambled aboard. “How many did you bring along in that great tub?”

“Damn near all of ‘em, I think. Maybe four hundred. I didn’t count ‘em.”

“Four
hundred
? By the Nine Hells, Sam; that’s a bloody army!” He eyed the sodden oarsmen as they climbed aboard and stood there, their muscled bodies glistening in the moonlight. “Any…uh…problems?”

“None other than a lot of pukin’ and a few squabbles. They’re not sailors, not by anyone’s reckoning, but they’ll fight, and that’s all we need ‘em for.” She waved her hand at the wallowing galleon and gave a laugh. “I told ‘em they could keep the
Venture
. Any luck, the emperor’s warships’ll find ‘em and think they did the deed alone.”

“Good thinking! It’ll be rather hard on your new friends, though, won’t it?”

“They’re not my friends, Captain,” she said, giving him a feral grin. “I might keep a few of the hands to crew
Manta
, but the rest…” She wrinkled her nose and shrugged. “Bilge water. The sooner pumped over the side, the better.”

“You’re a hard woman, Sam,” he said, clapping her on the shoulder and breaking into a relieved grin. “A proper pirate in all respects! Cheers for the captain of the
Manta
, boys! Cheers for Captain… By the hells, Sam, I don’t even know your last name, and
Captain Sam
, won’t do.”

She grinned at him. “Captain Bloodwind made me. He’s the only father I’ll ever claim.”

He looked appraisingly at her for a moment, then nodded. “Very well, then! Cheers for young Captain Bloodwind! Let’s hear it, boys!”

Three cheers rang out through the night, and Sam grinned her shark smile, thinking that it was the sweetest sound she’d ever heard.

Chapter 8

Blood and Toil

“I bet you all my chores that I catch the biggest lobster today,” Wika said. He and his friend Balki topped the low hill and started down the dark path toward the lagoon. Most mornings Paska had chores for them, but with the Shambata Daroo and so many people gone, they had the rare luxury of time off, and were taking full advantage. They liked to hunt lobsters early in the morning, before the rising sun sent the tasty creatures scurrying into their holes, where they were more difficult to capture.

“No bet!” Balki cried to Wika’s wager. He poked his friend with the butt of his fishing spear and laughed. “Next time you play five-card mango, don’t let Palla put his latrine duty in the pot!”

They pushed and shoved each other, laughing and reveling in their freedom. But the laughter died on their lips as the boys emerged from the jungle trail onto the beach.

In the gray pre-dawn light they could see three ships entering the channel through the reef, heading single-file toward Scimitar Bay. A stout hawser linked one ship to the next, running from stern to bow. The largest ship was in the rear, a galleon flying only jibs and a small spanker; four skiffs aided its passage, all crowded with dark-skinned men straining at their oars. The middle ship was smaller but more maneuverable, it seemed, and it flew all sails, her yards braced close to the wind. The smallest of the three was in the fore, gaff-sails sheeted close and drawing hard as she pulled the others along. Though it had been painted black, the boys knew that ship instantly.

“It’s
Manta
!” Wika cried, but Balki grabbed his arm and jerked him back into the trees.

“Get down, fool!” Balki hissed as he pointed to the decks of the ships, all crowded with dark figures brandishing weapons. “They’re pirates! Look; that’s a corsair.”

“Pirates?” Wika squinted and slowly shook his head. “They’re cannibals…”

“Whatever they are, they must know the mistress is gone!” Balki grabbed Wika’s arm and pulled him back along the path. “We’ve got to go tell Paska! Quick! Come on!”

The boys dashed up the trail, their bare feet a frantic patter on the fallen leaves and palm fronds. They had perhaps fifteen minutes before the three pirate ships were in the bay. A quarter of an hour before all Nine Hells broke loose.

≈

“Miss Cammy!” Paska pounded on the door hard enough to rattle the hinges, bellowing at the top of her lungs. Little Koybur wailed from his accustomed perch on her hip, adding to the din. “Miss Cammy! Yer Countship! Get up! We got trouble!”

Camilla had been drowsing in the crook of Emil’s arm, watching the sky lighten with the coming dawn, trying to decide if she should let him sleep a bit longer or wake him with a kiss. Paska’s urgent summons sent her vaulting out of bed. She grabbed her robe and ran toward the door. Before she reached it, she heard Tim’s voice shouting.

“Father! Miss Cammy! Pirates are coming!”

Camilla stopped short.
Pirates
? A chill ran up her spine; she felt frozen, unable to move.
Pirates here?
Emil flew past her, pulling on his own robe. He flung open the door to find both Paska and Tim with fists raised to bang on it once again.

“Pirates? Paska, what’s going on?” Emil asked.

“We got maybe ten minutes afore t’ree ships full of ‘em are right here in da bay. Da boys goin’ out fer lobsters saw
Manta
and a corsair comin’ up de channel towin’ a big galleon behind, all chockablock full.” Paska pushed into the room and nodded to their robes. “You’d best get dressed right quick! Wit’ da mistress gone, and more’n half our good fighters wit’ ‘em, we can’t fight dat many in da open. We gotta run.”

“
Manta
? That’s Samantha! I should stay and—”

“No, Father!”

The panic in Tim’s voice snapped Camilla from her fear-induced paralysis. She looked at the boy standing in the doorway, wide-eyed, his fist clenched white on his cutlass as if he intended to fend off an entire army of pirates alone.

“Sam’s
gone
, Father,” the boy said, his eyes pleading. “We can’t save her! We’ve got to
go
!”

“But I can’t—”

“Don’t argue!” Paska said, even as she bounced little Koybur on her hip to try and soothe him. The woman’s eyes were wide, but her voice was calm. “Get dressed! We gotta make shua ever’one else is up an’ out.”

Camilla watched Emil look around uncertainly, then looked at the others.
Emil, Paska, Koybur, Tim
… Realization and cold resolve settled into her mind in an instant. She crossed to Emil and put her hand on his arm.

“They’re right, Emil,” Camilla said softly. “You’re the emperor’s representative. Any pirate would gladly kill you—including, I’m afraid, your daughter. You’ve got to run.”

Norris finally acquiesced, dashing into the bedroom. “Run where?” he called through the doorway. “We’ve got no ships.” He returned a spare moment later, fastening the buttons of trousers and a shirt, his sword belt flung over his shoulder.

“The caves,” Tim said. “There’s room there for everyone, and even if they find us, a few can hold the entrance, or we could block it up from inside. But we’ve got to leave now, before they get here! Come on, Miss Cammy! You have to get dressed!”

“I’m staying.”

The three of them looked at her as if she had gone crazy.

“Oh, no you’re
not
staying!” Emil said. He grabbed up her dress and brought it to her, his tone that of a man used to being obeyed. “They’ll kill you!”

“No, Emil, they won’t,” she said.

The vaguest outline of a plan had risen in her mind. Cynthia had taken most of the warriors with her to Akrotia, and though the natives were all handy with weapons—even the children—they stood no chance against so many pirates. Camilla remembered Bloodwind’s ruthless horde, and she knew what would happen to anyone who stayed behind; anyone but her. Her resolve strengthened, though she had to push down a cold ball of fear in her throat that threatened to choke her.

“No,” she repeated. “In fact, I’m just about the only person they
won’t
kill. I was Bloodwind’s woman—damn near his
wife
. I can convince them that I’m still one of them. If they find no one in the keep, they’ll know something’s up, and they’ll hunt everyone down.” She pushed Emil before her, Tim pulled his father by the hand, and Paska ushered the two of them toward the door. “Take all the children, Paska, but ask for volunteers to stay and fight; the pirates will be suspicious if there’s no resistance. But make sure they all know that there’s little hope of surviving the attack.”

“Shua!” Paska said, and raced down the stairs.

“But, Camilla, I…” Emil stammered, indecision and panic vying for control of his face.

“I know, Emil.” She grasped his hands for a moment. “But this is the only chance we have. You
have
to believe me; I’ll be all right. But in order for me to do this, I have to know that you’ll be safe, and that you’ll keep the others safe.” Camilla kissed him, and then, while she still had the courage, whirled away and dashed up the stairs to her own rooms.

“Come on, Father,” Camilla heard Tim say from the landing below. “We gotta go!”

Tears streaked down her cheeks, but she forced down her turbulent emotions. If she let her fear overwhelm her, she knew she would be killed, or worse. She concentrated on her resolve and stoked her hatred. A cold, deadly calm settled over her as she closed and locked her door. That door would eventually come crashing in, she knew, and when it did, the pirates had to find someone other than Camilla. They had to find Bloodwind’s wife.

≈

“Bloody pirates aren’t gettin’ their grimy paws on these, anyway,” Dura said, upending the bottle of twelve-year-old single-malt whisky onto the pile of priceless ships’ plans. When the bottle was half emptied, she stopped pouring. “Or this!” She lifted the bottle to her lips and took a healthy pull, ignoring the shouts, cries and screams from outside. The doors were bolted, but she knew they wouldn’t hold for long.

She lifted the lamp from its peg and raised its chimney, then looked around the drafting room one last time. She sighed, took another swig from the bottle, and dropped the lamp onto the alcohol-soaked plans. The fine paper ignited with a whoosh, and Dura turned away as the fire roared behind her; it would be years before the plans could be replicated. She strode out into the empty lofting shed, remembering the fine vessels she had built there, and sighed again. She surveyed the tool rack, then lifted a heavy adze and checked its edge with a thumbnail.

“Good enough.” She tucked a couple of chisels into her belt, took one last pull from the bottle, set it aside, and glanced behind her. Smoke and flames billowed out of the drafting room, and the walls already smoldered. As she watched, the resin in the buckets that lined the wall burst into flames, a blaze which quickly spread among the other combustibles until the entire back of the building was afire. Stiffening her back, she strode toward the barred side door where a rhythmic pounding had begun. She flipped up the bar and flung the door wide just before the next impact.

Six startled figures, dark skinned with bits of white bone piercing their flesh, lunged forward with the timber they were using to bash the door and fell at Dura’s feet. The dwarf kicked one in the face with her sturdy boot, and the man fell back unconscious. She swung her adze at another, and the top of his skull peeled away in a spray of blood and shattered bone.

“Two down,” she muttered, stepping over the twitching corpse, and swung the adze once more. She bellowed dwarvish curses and chopped the sharp edge of her weapon across an astonished face. Two of the remaining attackers, scrambling to their feet, were sprayed with blood. One prone figure rolled and stabbed out with an obsidian knife. The blade pierced Dura’s thigh, but the haft of her adze met his jaw, smashing it to splinters.

“That’s a bloody poor excuse fer a blade, bucko!” She jerked the knife free and cast it aside. “Now who’s next?”

The two remaining warriors stood their ground, hefting heavy clubs and eying her dubiously. Dura spared a glance beyond them, and her stomach clenched. She gaped at
Manta,
beached on the sand, enemy warriors jumping off her bows like rats deserting a sinking ship. A big galleon at the pier was disgorging hundreds more. The defenders were outnumbered four to one, and corpses littered the beach; some were pirates, but most looked like her friends. Several were being dragged away alive in cargo nets back toward the galleon. Closer at hand, a crowd of warriors—more than she could hope to kill—charged toward her carrying their own heavy cargo net. The two natives in front of her smiled. Their pointed teeth gleamed red in the light of the fires that consumed the lofting shed.

“Bloody hells,” Dura growled between clenched teeth. She realized that death might not be the worst thing that could happen to her. “Ye ain’t takin’ me fer yer supper, ye bloody-handed cannibals!”

She drew one of the heavy wood chisels from her belt and flung it with all her strength. The tool met flesh with a crack, and the stunned man looked down at the handle protruding from his chest before he fell. Dura lunged at the second man, blocking an overhand sweep of his club and swinging her adze at his legs. The curved blade lodged in the man’s knee joint, and would not come free. The wooden handle slipped from her fingers, and she reached for her other chisel, brandishing it like a dagger as she backed up.

“Better to burn than boil in some cannibal’s pot,” she muttered, but as she turned, a hand grasped her ankle and she fell. The man she’d kicked had regained consciousness and grasped her leg. He swung his club, but she blocked the blow with her forearm. She kicked, and stabbed with her chisel, but he held on grimly, lips curled back from his broken and bloody teeth in a malicious and hungry grin.

“You ain’t eatin’ me!” she cried, planting her boot in that grin. “Yer teeth ain’t sharp enough ta chew dwarf!” His grip went limp as her boot connected again, and she lunged up.

Something heavy hit her head, and she blinked; the world went gray at the edges of her vision. A heavy net fell over her, and she tried to struggle, but then another blow whacked her skull and the gray plunged into black.

≈

Redtail puffed water through his gills in disgust. He pried with his short harpoon at the thick growth of barnacles and mussels covering the strange gray stone from which Akrotia was constructed. The harpoon was dulled by the work, and would be useless either as a weapon or for hunting now. He stopped to rest a moment, fatigued and disappointed. He was tired of searching, and tired of the stink of this water.

He had expected—naively, he realized—that they would reach the fabled city of Akrotia, enter it, and begin their new life. The design of the city was ideal for mer: twisting tunnels branched into thousands of grottos, each with nooks and crannies perfect for rearing finlings. But the walls were overgrown; it would take great effort to make them livable. Eelback had fostered such high expectations for his school that reality was a shock. Redtail had seen the other mer flash the dark colors of discontent, too.

He glanced around. He was in one of the passages that bordered Akrotia’s inner hull, the interface between the uppermost level of the mer city and the air-filled, landwalker area above. According to Eelback, there were inner grottos that could be partially flooded so that landwalker and mer could meet. Eelback had set everyone searching for an entrance to these grottos. “Doors,” he had said they were called; hard plates that prevented water from entering the city when closed, but that could be opened to admit the sea. Their ultimate goal was the Chamber of Life, the room that held the secret to the city’s restoration. In private, Redtail had asked Eelback how he knew all this. “The scrolls,” was Eelback’s answer to every question of late. Redtail was beginning to think that perhaps Eelback put too much faith in these scrolls.