[Darkblade 02] - Bloodstorm Page 16

  Bruglir looked to Yasmir and found himself staring into eyes as flat and cold as the blades in her hands. “Damn you, Darkblade,” he hissed. “If I do nothing else, I swear before the Dragons Below that I will ruin you. But until then,” he snarled, “I and my fleet are at your command.”

  The writ of iron evidently carried little weight with Urial’s skull-faced retainers; they formed a wall of flesh and steel between Malus and their lord as he approached Urial by the port rail. His head hung low and he managed another aching dry heave as his stomach continued to rebel against the motion of ship and sea.

  Malus threw back his head and laughed, savouring his half-brother’s suffering. “Now this is rich irony,” he said aloud. “A gift from the Dark Mother herself.”

  Urial turned until his back was to the rail. Dried vomit dotted his cheeks and chin and a thin stream of bile hung from his slack lips and twisted stubbornly in the cold wind. “Hateful thing,” he grunted, sliding to the deck. “I’ve slain men for less.”

  Malus grinned cruelly. “Would you care to see my hot blood roll across this pitching deck?”

  “By the Bloody-Handed God, shut up!” Urial groaned, his eyes rolling in their sockets like a pair of thrown dice. The highborn pushed past the retainers and leaned against the rail, drinking deep of the salt air. It surprised him how much he’d missed the sea once he’d returned to the Hag. “You know, in the old times, a druchii who couldn’t get his sea legs was believed to be bad luck and thrown overboard to the Dragons Below.”

  “If the sea is steady down in the depths, then throw me in,” Urial moaned. They can have me and may they choke on my bones.”

  Malus looked out into the darkness. Before his recent slaving cruise he would have been utterly blind, staring out into the inky night, but his experienced eye could discern subtle shades among the blackness, revealing a long coastline of craggy cliffs less than ten miles off the beam. The wind was blowing westerly off the port bow as Bruglir’s flagship tacked northward, her sleek hull slicing through the sullen waves.

  “You lied to me,” the highborn said, his voice level.

  “I did not.”

  “You said more than one retainer each would be too risky.”

  Urial nodded. “Indeed—because I planned on bringing six men of my own. You didn’t expect me to trust your word that Bruglir and Yasmir would honour the writ, did you?”

  Malus shrugged, concealing his anger. “No, I suppose not.”

  “What did our illustrious brother have to say?”

  “His fleet is scattered along the coast, looking for the last pickings before heading home,” the highborn said. “We’ll be turning soon, riding south before the wind as he seeks them out. He thinks it will be three or four days before he’s got them all together and we can make our way north.”

  With a heartfelt groan Urial gripped the rail with his good hand and pulled himself upright. “What coast is that, yonder?”

  Malus gave Urial a sidelong look. “That’s Bretonnia. We’re close to Lyonesse, I think.”

  “Ah,” Urial nodded, sounding relieved. “That’s good.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I feared it might be Ulthuan, in which case I would be greatly disappointed,” Urial answered. “I hope to see the home of our kin some day. I expect it’s grand and mountainous, rising from the sea like a crown.” He grinned in the darkness. “I dream of going there and watching those white cities burn.” Suddenly he turned to Malus. There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

  “You may ask,” Malus said, his voice promising nothing.

  “Back at the Hag, you told the Drachau you’d found the Isle of Morhaut,” Urial said. “How? The location’s been lost for at least two hundred years. Even the temple’s vast library holds no mention of it.”

  “Oh. That.” Malus looked at Urial and grinned. That was all a lie. I haven’t the slightest idea where the forsaken island is.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  PROMISES OF DEATH

  “You lied to the Drachau,” Yasmir said, her voice chillingly pleasant. “By all rights, that writ of iron you hold isn’t worth the metal holding it together.” Malus folded his arms and frowned at his half sister, trying to adjust his back into a more comfortable position without giving her the impression he was squirming. With Yasmir in the first officer’s cabin there were precious few berthing spaces left for the unexpected arrivals short of sleeping with the regular crew. Urial was one deck below with the ship’s chirurgeon, consigned to share a dank, lightless cell packed with jars of unguents, salves and animal parts. After some negotiation, Malus had managed to secure the ship’s chart room for himself; it was a musty alcove that smelled of rot and old paper, crammed with boxes of rolled-up maps and one long chart table that ran the length of the outside bulkhead. The table was currently acting as his bed, supporting a thin bedroll of straw ticking and a pillow made from a spare cloak. Malus attempted to recline on his makeshift divan, back propped against his poor excuse for a pillow and craning his head a little awkwardly due to the curvature of the bulkhead behind him.

  “I was right there when you stood in Bruglir’s cabin and told him that our first task was to uncover the location of the lost island,” Yasmir continued. Only her pointed chin and her sensual smile could be seen beneath a black half-veil of Tilean lace that concealed the rest of her features. Malus couldn’t imagine what had possessed her to bring such a thing on the voyage, but now she wore it whenever she left her cabin. It was the sort of thing a wife wore while keeping a death vigil over her husband—yet no matter what she was doing, Yasmir’s lips were always smiling, as though she were tickled by some secret amusement. It had only been a day since their arrival on Bruglir’s ship, but Malus was starting to wonder if perhaps the recent upheavals she’d suffered had pushed his radiant, pampered sister close to the edge of madness.

  “You led the Drachau to believe you already knew where the Isle of Morhaut was—if Bruglir had spent more time reading what the writ actually said rather than checking its authenticity, he would have found you out and you would be hanging by your neck from the mast right now.”

  “Fortunately he was somewhat distracted,” Malus answered calmly, his expression implacable. “I hadn’t realised you were so punctilious on matters of legality, dear sister.”

  “Only where my freedom is concerned. You used that writ to try and make a slave of me! You have no idea how abhorrent such a thing feels!”

  “Indeed, sister. You’re quite right. I never stopped to imagine what it might be like,” Malus replied coldly. He spread his hands. Very well. You’re free. What will you do now? Spread the news to your beloved?”

  Yasmir laughed, a bubbling sound of artless joy that set Malus’ teeth on edge. “By the Mother, of course not! Let him toil in chains for as long as you’ll have him.” She bent over him, her face inches from his. Malus could smell her sweetened breath and almost feel the silken brush of her lips and it disturbed him how much his body seemed drawn to hers, like iron to a lodestone. She whispered, There is a price for my silence, Malus. Will you pay it?”

  “You know I will,” he said, squirming against the bulkhead now for entirely different reasons. Damned confined spaces! He should have guessed she’d been up to something when she’d barged into the chart-room unannounced. Now she was using every method at her disposal to keep him off-balance and he couldn’t do a single thing about it.

  “I want that scarred sea whore dead,” she said, the words spilling like pure venom from her smiling lips. “I don’t care how, but she must die and the sooner the better.” Malus attempted a laugh. “I’ve already promised you Urial’s head, sister! Is there no end to your greed?” But the false mirth died beneath Yasmir’s implacable will.

  “It is the price of your continued survival, brother,” Yasmir whispered. “For now, you and I are partners, because I have an interest in seeing Bruglir suffer. He must atone for what he has done to me and the humiliation he endur
es from serving you is sweet. So I have no problem letting this campaign of yours continue. I’ll even support it so long as it suits my needs. But the woman must die. Only then can I make Bruglir devote himself entirely to me. Do you understand?”

  “If you want her dead why not kill her yourself?”

  For just a moment Yasmir’s zealous smile faltered. “Don’t be a fool, Malus,” she hissed. “Of course I can kill her, but that would gain me nothing. If she dies by my hand then Bruglir becomes my enemy and makes my plan that much harder.”

  “So you would rather I make an enemy of him instead?”

  “Of course, if that’s what it takes,” Yasmir replied. “But you are the leader of this expedition. I’m certain you can find some crafty means of sending the vile woman to her death that still keeps your own hands clean. Think on it, brother. Think carefully. The sooner the better, or I may lose my patience and tell Bruglir the truth.” Her dazzling smile glowed beneath the blackness of the veil. “It’s possible that he might be so grateful at escaping the writ that he’d kill the whore just to please me, but I don’t want to take that chance unless I feel I must.” With that she turned on her heel and opened the door into the shadowy passageway, slipping gracefully from sight.

  Before Malus could slide his feet off the table Hauclir ducked into the cramped room, gnawing on a chunk of bread and holding a wooden platter of cheese, sausage and apple slices in his hand. He held the food out to Malus. “It appears our timing was good; they raided a human village not two days ago and were able to refill their stores. Before that they were down to eating rats while dodging Bretonnian coastal patrols. Your brother is a madman for staying out as long as he does.” The guardsman pointed at the cheese, a small half-round the size of his palm. “I think that’s from a goat. You should try it.”

  Malus took the proffered plate with a glare for his retainer. He pressed his fingertips to the platter and studied the number of cheese crumbs they picked up. “Hauclir,” he said sourly, “while it is your duty to test my food for poison, you don’t have to eat half the cheese to do it.”

  Hauclir paused in mid-chew. “Test for poison, my lord?”

  Bruglir’s flagship was a long, ebon sea-blade named Harrier, built by the shipwrights in Clar Karond and wrought with the best craft and sorcery that the captain’s ample fortune could buy. With three stepped masts and a long, narrow hull she could fly along the water with all her sails set and her crew knew the dance of wind and wave as well as they knew the lands of their birth. For some, the sea was the only homeland they’d ever known and all that they ever longed for when tied up in port.

  But the qualities that made Harrier sleek and swift also made her difficult to handle in heavy weather; her tall masts and narrow beam made her prone to rolling dangerously in rough seas, which was what the nimble corsair faced now. Winter still stubbornly refused to yield to spring along the Bretonnian coast and a sharp wind still blew westerly from the open sea before a wall of heavy grey clouds. The ocean was the colour of unpolished steel, surging and crashing against the hull of the raider as she worked her way southwards into the areas where the remaining ships of the fleet were hunting for prey. For the last three days Bruglir had collected his scattered ships, using prearranged rendezvous points and surreptitious signals made in the dead of night. Eight other raiders now trailed along in the Harrier’s wake, their captains growing more nervous by the hour as a fleet of black ships was bound to attract the attention of watchers along the coast.

  Muffled shouts and pounding feet had brought Malus topside with Hauclir in tow. There was a subtle change in the atmosphere, an undercurrent of tension that he recognised from his raiding cruise the previous year and had learned to pay attention to. Something was happening and the crew was on edge.

  A cold, salty wind slapped at the highborn’s face as he emerged on deck, prompting him to reach back for the woollen hood hanging at his shoulders. He’d changed into his armour and wore a cloak of raw wool to keep the water from the expensive steel. The Harrier rolled drunkenly as it staggered against another hissing wave and the sailors up in the rigging relayed instructions to one another from the woman standing at the ship’s wheel below. Malus caught sight of Tanithra, the first officer, casting a weather eye on the storm front standing out to the west as she led the ship a merry dance along the sullen sea. Off to port, between Harrier and the coast, Malus saw two new corsairs, their raked prows pointing north as they tacked against the wind.

  Hauclir staggered as the ship reeled in the opposite direction as the wave surged past. The former captain had yet to find his sea legs, though his stomach had apparently adjusted easily enough. “Looks like two of our scattered sea birds came and found us for a change,” he shouted over the waves and the rushing wind.

  “So it would appear,” Malus answered, scanning the deck. Other than the day watch, the rest of the crew were below, knowing that they would have to suffer their turn in the freezing wind and spray soon enough. “The question is why.”

  The highborn turned and headed aft, towards the citadel. From the citadel the captain would command the ship in battle, able to look down on the main deck and across to the raised deck of the redoubt at the bow of the ship. The ship’s wheel stood upon the citadel, just forward of a pair of powerful bolt throwers that could fire massive steel-headed bolts at enemy ships approaching the Harrier from the aft quarter or stern. Two short stairways led up from the main deck, one to port and one to starboard. On impulse, Malus crossed to the starboard stair. As he did, another wave surged against the hull and the corsair heeled over like a bottle bobbing in the surf. Hauclir staggered with a sharp curse, inadvertently bumping into Malus and sending him reeling towards the side of the staircase.

  The highborn flung out a hand to steady himself and suddenly a powerful wave of vertigo seized him. His vision swam and a cacophony of sound waxed and waned in his ears—discordant, clashing noises and cries of anger and pain. Wetness, warm and thick, soaked across his palm. Malus reeled, holding up his hand to see a stain of deep red in his wavering sight. Here is where I died, a thought echoed crazily in his mind.

  Then strong hands seized him by the shoulders and held him fast. Malus shook his head fiercely and the world seemed to snap back onto its moorings once more. He looked over his shoulder to see Hauclir bracing him with both hands.

  “My apologies, my lord,” Hauclir said, somewhat sheepishly. “How does anyone get used to this incessant tumbling?”

  Malus shook himself free of Hauclir’s grip. “Perhaps I should have you walk the deck all night tonight until you learn.”

  “Will that be before or after you’ve ripped out my fingernails and gouged out my eyes with a fish bone?”

  “Eh?”

  “So far you’ve promised to rip out my nails for being late with breakfast and then said you’d gouge out my eyes for airing out your good cloak and getting it soaked with salt water.”

  Malus frowned. “All that since we came aboard?”

  “All that since this morning. Yesterday, you said—”

  “Never mind,” the highborn muttered, grinding his teeth. “When we get back home I’ll have you fed to the cold ones and we’ll leave it at that.”

  Hauclir nodded, his face impassive. “Very well, my lord. I’ll make a note of it.”

  “Are you mocking me now, you impertinent wretch?”

  “Just trying to help you keep track of things, my lord. I’m here to be of service.”

  “Indeed? Feel free to begin at any time.”

  Malus worked his way around to the bottom of the staircase and made for the citadel deck, his retainer trailing obediently in his wake. “Your pardon, my lord,” he said stiffly. “I know I’m no good with clothes and meals and such. Perhaps if you gave me some task that suited my skills?”

  “Extortion, you mean? I can manage that myself,” Malus growled. Though I confess you show a particular kind of artistry in that sort of thing.”

  “Ambition is a
virtue, my lord,” Hauclir said archly. “As to my professional skills, I’m swift with a knife or a cudgel, I know how to deal with inconvenient bodies and I’ve got a good sense of what’s going on behind a person’s eyes, if you take my meaning.”

  “Were you a guard in the Drachau’s service, or a thug?” Malus asked, climbing the stair.

  “Is there a difference, my lord?”

  “No, I suppose not. All right, then. What do you make of our current situation?”

  “Thrown to the cold ones my lord, with a steak round our necks.”

  The image brought a sharp bark of laughter from the highborn. “That good, eh?”

  Hauclir shrugged. “The crew is wagering which of your siblings will slip you the knife first. Every one of them—even that flat-eyed cripple Urial—all study you like a strange kind of insect. Right now they’re more interested in what you are and what you’re about, but sooner or later you can see in their eyes that they’re going to crush you and move on.”

  “None of this comes as much of a surprise,” Malus said. “So you’re well acquainted with the crew now, are you?”

  Hauclir shrugged. “They’re a clannish lot, like most sea ravens, but they gamble and drink and complain like guardsmen, so I’ve had a chance to chew the fat with a few of them.”

  Malus paused at the top of the stairs, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “All right then, here’s a task for you. I want you to find out how the loyalties of these sea birds lie. How well-loved are Bruglir and his first officer? If the illustrious captain were to die, who would they follow?” The retainer considered the command, then nodded. “Easy enough to do, my lord.” He eyed his master and chuckled. “You’ve promised each one of your siblings the other’s head, it appears. Have you decided which one you’re going to kill?”

  Malus looked back at Hauclir, his smile cold and his black eyes glittering. “I’m going to see them all dead or broken in the end, Hauclir. Who lives or dies by the end of this cruise depends on who remains useful to me for the future. Including you.”