The Key to Creation (41 page)

Four enemy soldiers engaged him, their scimitars dancing in the dim light. Mateo held a dagger in one hand, sword in the other as he backed away, defending himself against the scimitars. But when he tried to block two thrusts at the same time, another Uraban darted into the opening. His long slim knife plunged into Mateo’s side.

The blow made him stagger. It felt as if someone had poured ice down his throat. He used his knife to fend off a killing thrust, cut deeply into a Uraban arm, then slashed weakly with his sword as he scrambled away.

Taking charge, Jenirod bellowed for the soldiers to get to the ropes and climb back down to their horses. Several more Tierrans died as they withdrew, and their bravado faded as the tide of battle shifted in their minds. Instead of feeling invincible, they saw the surge of enemy soldiers and a thousand blades waiting to kill them. They carved their way through the handful of defenders to their rear, retreating along the top of the wall.

The Ishalem commander shouted an order, and through the haze of pain from the knife wound in his side, Mateo watched a line of enemy archers take a stance, nocking arrows. Urecari swordsmen dropped back to leave an open field of targets.

“Run!” Jenirod shouted. Somehow, Destrar Shenro had gotten ahead of him, leading the surviving fighters to the ropes and grappling hooks. The first three Tierran soldiers scrambled down to the ground and ran to the horses.

Mateo staggered along, holding his side, which was slick with hot blood.

Arrows sang through the air, and five Tierrans fell at once. Mateo was dropping behind, limping and reeling. He felt lightheaded, as if the pain were far away, no more than a nagging shout drowned out by the storm of adrenaline. The archers loosed their next round, and a Uraban arrow struck him squarely between his shoulder blades. It felt as if someone had hit him with a hammer, a blow that Vicka’s father would have admired. He couldn’t run. His legs gave way, pitching him forward. He found himself sprawling. He struggled to get up.

Mateo knew he was dead. He couldn’t move, couldn’t reach the ropes, much less climb down. He was going to die here, after all, atop the Ishalem wall.

Jenirod grabbed him by the arms, pulled him up, and carried him over his shoulder like a rolled rug. The clash of swords, the shouts and screams of men, the defiant roars all faded to a blur in his head.

Jenirod faced the oncoming enemy on the wall and let out an animal snarl that drove them back. He slung a rope around his waist, tightened his grip on the limp Mateo, and lowered himself as fast as he could. He dropped to the ground as the Urabans reached the edge of the wall, hurling curses.

The enemy soldiers found the ropes and cut them. A few Tierrans fell; one man broke his ankle, but his boot kept the joint together enough that his companions could help him to the horses.

More archers appeared silhouetted against the top of the barricade, pulling their bows. Jenirod ran, zigzagging to foil the archers’ aim, hardly even winded despite his heavy burden. Mateo was only marginally aware of what was happening.

“
Go!
” Jenirod bellowed to the men ahead of him. “Mount up and ride for your lives back to camp!”

Arrows whispered around them in the tall grasses, reminding a groggy Mateo of fish leaping in a pond.

Somehow Jenirod reached his horse and heaved Mateo across the saddle before he swung up himself. He bent forward and galloped off into the night. “We’ll get you to the Saedrans, Subcomdar—just hold on. You’ll be all right.”

Mateo didn’t believe him. He gasped for breath, trying to cling to a memory of Anjine until he finally lost consciousness.

The
Dyscovera

As they sailed from the Lighthouse at the End of the World, caught in the fringes of colliding storms, Criston felt as if all the strands of his life had knotted together in this place, at this moment. Spray flooded over the deck, thunder and lightning clashed in the angry clouds overhead. The beacon from the ancient tower pierced the thickening squall even as the
Dyscovera
pulled away.

As he willed his ship to greater speed, Criston’s cold anticipation was stronger than his dread. The storm seemed familiar, and this time he understood what it meant. The Leviathan! Now that he knew Adrea was still alive, he vowed that this monster would not take her away from him again.

He called over the storm noise, “I would ask you to pray for us, Prester, but I doubt it would do any good.”

Hannes stood in the cold rain as if he had something to prove to himself, wrestling with his internal fury after leaving Mailes. “Prayer always helps, Captain—in one fashion or another.” But it was an automatic answer; the man’s doubts were inscribed on his troubled face as clearly as words in a journal.

As worsening winds drove the
Dyscovera
onward, one of the canvas sails tore, and a rope whipped free, flailing about like a wild animal trying to escape. Together, Javian and Mia struggled to pull it down and fastened it to a stanchion. An unexpected swell curled over the side, knocking Mia off her feet. Javian yelled after her as she fought for any sort of handhold. She clutched a loose crate. It tumbled and rolled, so she grabbed on to the capstan instead. The crate flew overboard and was lost in the wild sea. Javian recklessly sloshed forward to grab Mia’s arm, and they huddled together on the capstan. The wave passed, and as the waters drained from the deck, the two held each other, panting and frightened.

Lightning struck again. Criston saw a shadow moving through the water—a dangerous form, like a nightmare embodied. “All hands on deck!” he bellowed, though many crewmembers would be reluctant to emerge from shelter. “I need every man here!”

The word was passed, and a dozen bedraggled men fought their way into the storm. Criston urged them along. “Break out the harpoons and spears—I need every man armed and ready! This will be the fight of our lives.”

Since Adrea was alive out there, he
had
to survive. Criston tried to penetrate the driving rain with his gaze. The pearlescent ice-dragon horn attached to the bow did not glow. Perhaps Raathgir’s protection drove away sea serpents…but not the Leviathan.

Soaking wet and still shaky, Javian and Mia got back to their feet and armed themselves. The crew took up harpoons and spears, shielding themselves from the downpour, looking for a target.

“Our faith will protect us, Captain!” Hannes shouted. “Do not be afraid.”

Criston narrowed his eyes. “Even Ondun regretted creating the Leviathan, Prester. We should all be afraid.”

As if it had merely been waiting for the
Dyscovera
’s crew to gather their laughable weapons, the dark monster of the deep breached the frothing waves. The Leviathan’s body was cylindrical, its snout tapered to a point at the end of a mouth as large as a sea cave. From the middle of its brow a single milky eye stared out with a cold and demonic glow completely unlike the bright gleam of the lighthouse beacon. A line of spines surrounded its head and gills, like the frill of a poisonous lizard.

Criston’s sailors threw their harpoons against the armored gray hide, and the sharpened iron tips struck sparks off the scales, but they barely made the Leviathan twitch. The beast let out a sound like a deep, lonely groan, exhaling a cold wind that stank of rotted fish guts and deadly plague.

The creature lifted sets of tentacles, each like a writhing cobra tipped with another fanged mouth and bright eyes in search of prey. The tentacles clasped the
Dyscovera
’s deck rails, splintering the wood, chewing through the hull.

Like a man caught up in a spell, Criston strode toward his nemesis. This monster had destroyed the
Luminara
, ruined his life, killed Captain Shay and all of his shipmates. He remembered that last night as clearly as any Saedran chartsman could recall the details of a map: Captain Shay had run forward to hurl a spear into the monster’s eye…and when he missed, the Leviathan lurched onto the
Luminara
’s bow and devoured the captain in a single gulp.

Now Criston threw the first harpoon at hand, which plunged into the monster’s gaping maw, piercing the soft pink flesh. “Tonight, one of us will die!”

The fanged appendages grabbed the masts and snapped spars like twigs. Two of the tentacles seized sailors, while another one tore off great chunks of flesh and tossed the morsels overboard to be eaten later.

While the storm continued to rage, the monster let out another slow, rumbling groan and opened its mouth wider. Panicked, sailors threw their spears, and a few wobbly archers loosed a volley of arrows. Sen Aldo dove to the deck as a tentacle swooped overhead. Criston grabbed another harpoon and did not flinch from where he stood.

The Leviathan drew back, intent on destroying the ship. From beneath the water, it rammed the
Dyscovera
with its bullet-shaped snout. The sailing ship heeled to port, nearly capsizing, and a long crack shivered down the side. The fanged tentacles reached out to snap the mainmast in half and tore away the mainsail.

Prester Hannes leaned against the foremast, gripping his fishhook pendant. His eyes were closed in fervent prayer, and the expression on his scarred face was oddly peaceful.

Criston shut out the sounds of cracking wood and screaming men. Time seemed to stop for him as he gathered his courage and determination. He called for help, summoning allies who hated the Leviathan as much as he did, if not more. He prayed they would arrive before it was too late.

Calay

His wife told him he was being foolish, but Sen Leo knew that his fears were justified. Guard-Marshall Vorannen had promised to increase patrols in the dockside area, but the city guard didn’t have enough remaining members to watch the
Dyscovera
model properly.

The old scholar was anxious because it had been so long since Aldo had sent a
rea
pigeon, but he didn’t want Lanni to suspect that her husband might be in danger. Now Sen Leo tossed and turned in his bed. If the last days of the world were indeed upon them, according to Saedran prophecies, then he could not change the fate of humanity. Yet it was necessary as a human being, as an intelligent man, to
do something
. He could not simply give up.

In bed, his wife gave a loud sigh. “Go there, if it worries you so much. When you’re restless like this, you flop about like a fish on a dock. If you’re not going to sleep, then spend the night watching over the ship model with Sen Burian. At least I’ll have peace here, and one of us can rest.”

Sen Leo did not need to be asked twice. He pushed himself out of bed and pulled on his clothes, while his wife mumbled teasingly into her pillow, “If you think this means you can nap all day tomorrow when there’s work to be done, you’d better reconsider.”

“I always get my work done, dear.”

In minutes, he was out the door and making his way through the quiet streets of the Saedran District. His anxiety increased as he approached the dockside warehouses, where the silence seemed tense and ominous instead of restful. He saw none of the promised guards stationed outside the warehouse building, which meant the
Dyscovera
model was unguarded! What was Vorannen thinking?

Leo hurried forward and was shocked to find the warehouse door unlocked and ajar. Something was not right here.

He heard voices inside, people stirring. Indignant, sure they were up to no good, he marched through the door, ready to protect the model. Just inside the threshold, he stumbled over a body. He fell to his knees and let out a loud gasp, which made the voices fall silent. His hand landed on the chest of the corpse on the floor and came away wet with the blood that had soaked the man’s tunic. Sen Burian na-Coway.

Sen Leo struggled to his feet, shouting. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” Three forms sprang toward him.

Several candles shed enough light inside the storehouse for him to discern that the figures carried mallets, cudgels, axes, and long knives. Leo recognized the hooligans who had harassed Sen Burian several days earlier. Before, the vandals had seemed intent on annoying the model-maker, but this was different from throwing rotten fruit or breaking windows—they had murdered Burian!

“Stay away from that model!” Sen Leo shouted. “Help!
Help!
”

But the neighborhood streets were empty.

“And you’re going to stop us, old man?” said one of the young men.

Leo saw the glint in their eyes in the dim light. These were not just restless, irresponsible teenagers. “You are
ra’virs
,” he said.

“And good ones, too.” The teens snickered and moved closer.

Leo grabbed a broomstick and brandished it as a weapon. With a deep ache in his chest, he saw that they had already smashed part of the model and severed the rigging ropes. One of the masts was down.

Not only did that majestic ship symbolize the hopes of Tierra, it was also the best chance for the Saedrans to complete the Mappa Mundi. If these young men destroyed the model, then the ship herself might be irreparably damaged due to sympathetic magic.

And Aldo was aboard the
Dyscovera
!

Though he had little chance of defeating these
ra’virs
, Leo charged, swinging the broomstick. The young men had the gall to laugh at him. Two of them closed in, while the third went back to hatcheting the model with wild abandon.

“Stop!” Sen Leo swung again, but one of the
ra’virs
grabbed the broomstick and yanked it from his hands.

The second vandal moved close and with an odd, impatient casualness plunged his long dagger into Sen Leo’s chest, driving it deep. He withdrew the knife and let the old man fall to the sawdust-covered floor.

The rattle emanating from Leo’s throat was as much despair as agonal pain. “Stop,” he whispered.

The
ra’virs
ignored him. All three took up their tools and weapons and fell upon the model once more. They no longer seemed interested in the old man, or in keeping quiet.