[Darkblade 02] - Bloodstorm Page 17

  Hauclir straightened, his eyes widening at the highborn’s menacing tone, then collected himself. “As you command, my lord,” he said stiffly, then turned and headed below.

  The citadel deck was more than sixty paces long and twenty in width and with only the day watch topside it was sparsely manned. Four lookouts, two to a side, stood at the ship’s rails, scanning the grey horizon and the rocky cliffs of Bretonnia with long spyglasses. A tall sailor with a heavy boarding pike stood guard at the head of each of the stair rails and the first officer performed a solitary dance with rudder and sail, her fingers light on the polished teak wheel. A junior officer paced the perimeter of the entire deck, keeping an eye on every member of the crew and seeing that each one kept to his task with eagle eyes. The guard at the top of the starboard rail, a scarred veteran of many cruises, eyed Malus with the wary belligerence of an old watchdog but stepped aside to let the highborn pass.

  Malus paced slowly across the deck, sidling close to the first officer. The corsair’s scarred face was intent, her good eye distant as she gauged forces described by the trembling of the hull and the warp of the sails overhead. Yet he could sense that she was also aware of him, keeping close track of his movements with the same intensity as she measured wind, tide and the positions of the ships around the Harrier.

  The highborn walked to within an arm’s length of the wheel and stood to one side of the first officer, staying upwind so his words would carry easily to her. “What news? I didn’t think we were due to meet any more of our companions until well after dark.”

  “There’s a Bretonnian coastal squadron hunting south of us,” the first officer rasped, her rough voice carrying easily over the wind and waves. “Drove Bloodied Knife and Sea Witch off their patrol and pushed them towards us. Their captains came aboard a short while ago and are talking in Bruglir’s cabin.”

  Malus frowned, looking out at the churning, slate-coloured waves. They came across in this? “Is there a problem?”

  She shrugged. “It could be part of a snare, working with another squadron further north to drive us together and bottle us up against the coast.” The first officer spared a moment’s vigilance to throw Malus a vicious glare. “I don’t doubt every coast watcher from Lyonesse to Broadhead is calling for the coastal guard, watching us lumber along together like this. Probably think we’re an invasion fleet.”

  “Can the Bretonnians catch us?”

  Again, the corsair shrugged, scrutinising the storm front bulking along the western horizon. “The Bretonnians can read the weather as well as we,” she said, “and their fat old scows can handle these seas a little better than we can. It’s possible, if their captains are hungry enough and bold enough.”

  “They can’t be bolder than Bruglir and his captains,” Malus said confidently. He eyed the first officer appraisingly. Tanithra Bael,” he said slowly, using the officer’s full name. “You’re an officer of no small repute yourself. I heard your name spoken more than once when I was rounding up my own crew at Clar Karond last year. Yet you’re serving as second to Bruglir. I would have thought you’d be captaining your own ship.”

  Bael’s expression didn’t change, but Malus saw her spine stiffen slightly. “All things in their time,” she growled. “Women can sail with the corsairs, but female captains are still rare. If I struck out on my own I’d have a hard time raising a crew, even with my reputation. Bruglir has promised me the next ship that comes available and we’ll handpick the crew from all over the fleet.” She smiled then, imagining a vessel that sailed every night in her deepest dreams. Then the great captain and I will turn the seas red!”

  The highborn nodded thoughtfully. “But you’ve been serving as his lieutenant for more than seven years. That’s a long time to wait for a ship, isn’t it?”

  Tanithra’s smile faded. “Fine ships take time to build,” she replied. “Harrier here sat in her cradle for almost ten years while the shipwrights laid on their sorceries. My time will come.”

  “Of course, of course,” Malus agreed. “But now there is the matter of his sister—”

  “What of her?” Tanithra said hotly, this time turning to face him with both hands still clutching the wheel. “He dallies with her a few weeks each year while I stay with the ship for her fitting-out. It makes no difference to me what he does on dry land. At sea, he’s mine. If Yasmir had tried to drive me from his bed instead of taking my quarters, you would have seen then where Bruglir’s real affections lie.”

  Malus nodded. In truth, he’d been a little surprised that Yasmir hadn’t tried to press that very point. Perhaps she’d sensed the truth as well and refused to acknowledge it? Something to consider, he thought. “Still,” he continued, “now she knows of you. You can’t expect a proud and pampered highborn like her to let such an insult go unanswered. And she has the ear of many powerful nobles back at the Hag. She could make Bruglir’s ambitions to succeed his father very difficult indeed.”

  Tanithra glanced at him warily, her expression troubled. “Perhaps,” she said, then gave a shrug. “But that’s years in the future. By then I’ll have my ship and the rest will see to itself.”

  The highborn nodded, though inwardly he smiled cunningly. “I’m certain you’re right,” he said. “So long as Yasmir does nothing to poison Bruglir’s mind against you, or find a way to murder you, or affect changes at home that force her beloved to give up the sea between now and then your position is perfectly safe.”

  The first officer nodded, then Malus watched her expression darken as the full weight of his words made themselves felt. She turned back to the wheel, her face intent. Malus allowed himself a brief, outward smile, watching his seed take root.

  Just then came a faint cry from the bow, the words tattered by the rushing wind. Tanithra became alert at once, her worries forgotten. After a moment a sailor at mid-deck repeated the cry, relaying the message to the stern.

  Malus leaned forward, trying to catch the words. “What’s he talking about?”

  “Maiden’s favours,” Tanithra snapped, muttering a sharp curse. “Square sheets—Bretonnian sails sighted ahead.” She sought out the junior officer of the deck and called out to him in a clear, piercing voice. “Sound the call to battle! Topmen aloft and stand ready to unfurl sail!”

  The junior officer stopped in mid-stride at the sound of Tanithra’s voice and without hesitation put a silver horn to his lips and winded a skirling, moaning note that shivered along Malus’ bones. Almost immediately the deck beneath his feet shivered as the crew of the corsair leapt to action, bounding for their positions on or below deck. Within moments Malus heard eerie echoes of the horn’s cry riding the wind—the other ships of the fleet had heard the Harrier’s war-horn or had seen the danger for themselves and were readying themselves for action.

  Dark-robed figures boiled from the hatches like angry birds, some heading aloft on frost-rimed rigging while others stood ready with spear and shield or pulled oilskin covers off the menacing bolt throwers fore and aft. Tanithra glanced over at Malus, her one eye cold and hard like a stormcrow’s.

  “Here’s where we see what those Bretonnians are made of,” she said, showing a wolfs hungry smile.

  Chapter Fourteen

  KNIVES IN THE DARK

  “Here comes another one!” one of the druchii lookouts yelled, pointing aft at one of the Bretonnian ships. Few of the veteran sailors on the citadel deck even turned their heads, but Malus couldn’t help but watch in horrified fascination as a black dot arced skyward from the bow of the lead human ship and seemed to climb lazily into the air.

  The dot was a sphere of polished granite, lobbed from a siege catapult mounted in the Bretonnian warship’s bow—they were so large that only one could fit per ship, or so the corsairs claimed and dominated the bows of the broad-bellied coastal ships. They were a recent innovation of the coastal guard and if the corsairs had little regard for the Bretonnians’ seamanship, they had a grudging respect for their marksmanship. The aft lookouts ma
rked the flight of the stone with dreadful intent and as Malus watched, the dot seemed to freeze its motion for a single heartbeat, then swell with terrifying speed. It seemed to be aimed right for him, a ball of stone the size of his chest and heavy as three men and Malus found his mouth go dry. Then at the last moment he saw that the shot would fall short and the stone whizzed into the ship’s wake less than ten paces from the hull, striking the water with a sharp slap and a high, narrow plume of white.

  “That’s the closest one yet,” Hauclir said, standing just behind Malus’ left shoulder. He’d raced topside with the sound of the horn, fully armoured in the space of five minutes and ready to fight. The guard at the top of the citadel stair had tried to block the former captain’s way, but Hauclir had frozen the man in his place with an officer’s baleful stare and joined his lord for the long sea chase that had transpired over the course of the afternoon.

  Bruglir had reached the citadel within minutes of hearing the horn, dismissing his visiting captains to their ships and sizing up the lookout’s reports. As soon as the captains had pulled away in their long boats he’d ordered flags set to turn the fleet northward, away from the approaching human squadron. The Bretonnians looked to number no more than five ships—twin-masted vessels with square sails of sapphire or crimson, arrayed in an echelon trailing off to port—but it appeared Bruglir had no intention of offering battle and risking damage to his fleet, not with the closest friendly port hundreds of leagues west and no chance of heading there any time soon. The corsair captain hoped to stay ahead of the Bretonnians until nightfall, when the black ships could easily shake their pursuers in the darkness. Unfortunately, tacking against a strong wind and fighting a heavy sea, the druchii ships could make little headway. The waves slapped at the flat of the blade-like corsair hulls and slowed their advance, while the broad-bellied coastal guard ships waddled like fat old ducks over the swells and pressed doggedly ahead, closing the distance slowly but steadily. Malus looked to the cloudy sky. It was little more than two hours until nightfall. With their course reversed, Harrier and her sister ships Sea Witch and Bloodied Knife were strung out at the rear of the corsair fleet, closest to the approaching Bretonnian ships. The highborn tried to gauge the rate of the human ships’ advance against the passage of hours and found he couldn’t be certain who was going to win the race.

  “They are hoping to hit one of our masts or our rudder,” Bruglir said, glancing back to eye the Bretonnian ships’ progress. The captain stood close by the wheel while a junior officer tended the helm. Tanithra had gone forward to the fortress deck, her appointed station during battle. The Bretonnians have the range—now it’s just a matter of gaining a few more yards and letting fate take its course.”

  Malus frowned. “And if they don’t hit us in our vitals—can we keep our distance until nightfall?”

  The captain frowned, his long moustache nearly touching his enamelled breastplate. “No. Not likely” With a pained look Bruglir turned to Urial, who stood close by his men, axe in hand. “Have you some sorcery that could lend us speed?”

  Urial regarded the captain inscrutably. “No,” he said. “The ways of the Lord of Murder do not lend themselves to flight.”

  “Of course not,” Bruglir said with a derisive snort. “Dark Mother forbid the temple contribute anything but mayhem,” he grumbled.

  Not even Malus could keep a look of surprise from his face at the naked scorn in Bruglir’s voice. “I fear your years at sea may have kept you out of the petty feuds at home, but it’s poorly prepared you for political realities at the Hag, Malus thought. You’ll be a short-lived Vaulkhar indeed if you alienate the Temple of Khaine. Why don’t we shoot back?” he said, pointing to the bolt throwers standing ready at the stern.

  Bruglir shook his head. “The winds are too high and a bolt wouldn’t do much to slow those big sea-cows anyway,” he said.

  “Have you no dragon’s fire aboard?”

  The captain scowled at him. “We’ve a few, yes, but I’ll not fire them off unless I must. Each shot is like firing a bag of gold into the sea and I have a feeling we’ll need them much more where we’re going,” he said darkly. “No, there’s another option open to us.” He pointed to the storm front to the west, now much closer as the fleet had been tacking slowly but steadily away from the coast. “We head into the squall line and lose them in the storm.”

  “Won’t that be dangerous?”

  Bruglir shrugged. “Some. As dangerous to them as to us, certainly and they won’t be able to see more than a dozen yards in any direction. The fleet will be scattered, but that’s not much of a concern. So long as we don’t bump into someone in the storm, we should escape with no trouble.”

  Malus didn’t want to think about the consequences of a collision in the middle of a raging winter storm. “When will you decide to head into the storm?”

  One of the lookouts cried out, then a flat, droning sound filled the air a split-second before a dark stone struck the Harrier’s stern. Sailors dived for cover as the round stone shattered a section of the stern rail just to the left of the portside bolt thrower and ploughed through one of its crew. The hapless sailor literally flew apart in a welter of blood and viscera and the stone rebounded from the deck’s teak planking, racing in a black streak across the citadel and striking the sentry at the top of the starboard stair. Malus watched as the stone shattered the man’s steel armour and flung his dead body into the air, carrying him over the side and into the embrace of the sea.

  Malus straightened, only then realising he’d crouched to the deck instinctively from the first impact. “Clear the deck!” Bruglir roared, even as unhurt sailors leapt to drag their wounded fellows below decks to the chirurgeon and the bolt thrower’s crew tossed the pieces of their mate into the sea with a hurried prayer to the Dragons Below. The captain turned to his signal man. “Flags aloft,” he ordered. “Signal the fleet to turn three points west by north. If scattered, rendezvous at the Pearl Sack.” The officer repeated the message and headed to the rail, readying his flags of red and black.

  “Come about three points to port,” Bruglir ordered, his voice carrying easily to mid-deck and the topmen aloft in the shrouds. “Loose the topgallants and the stays! We’ll see how stiff their spines are with ice rattling along their decks!”

  Malus watched as the corsairs put on more sail and the ship responded, surging like a game horse into the heaving waves. Ahead, the other ships of the fleet were beginning their own course changes. A motion out of the corner of his eye caught his attention—Urial was beckoning to him with a nod of his head.

  “Stay here,” Malus told Hauclir, then crossed the tilting deck as the corsair came about. Urial, he noticed, appeared to have finally found his sea legs, leaning unconsciously with the change in attitude of the wooden deck.

  “What’s happening?” Urial asked as Malus drew near. There was a subtle tension in the former acolyte’s pale face. Was he anticipating battle, Malus thought, or something else?

  “We’re turning into that storm yonder,” Malus said. “Bruglir hopes to evade the Bretonnians in the squall.”

  Urial frowned. “The famous sea captain won’t offer battle?”

  “He’s taking the long view,” the highborn replied. There will be major battles aplenty where we’re headed and he must conserve his force. I would do the same in his position.”

  “But if the Bretonnians find us in the storm?”

  “Then it will be a fight indeed,” Malus said. “Close and brutal. Men are apt to die.”

  Urial’s eyes shone at the prospect. “Indeed,” he said eagerly. “Even a great sea captain could find a knife in his side from an unknown quarter, if an attacker were bold enough.”

  Malus’ eyes widened. He leaned close, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “I haven’t forgotten my promise, brother,” he said. “But now is no time for assassins’ knives. We need Bruglir to command his fleet. If he dies, the captains will look to their own, either fighting to control t
he fleet or turning for home. I can’t have that. Not yet.”

  Urial’s face twisted into a grimace. “So long as you remember your vow, Malus,” he hissed, “you have my support. But my patience has its limits.”

  “Of course, brother,” Malus said tightly, trying to conceal his irritation. “Tell me, have you seen our sister since the horn was sounded?”

  “No. She remains below, I think,” Urial said. “I’m a trifle disappointed. I’d hoped that the prospect of battle would draw her from her cabin.”

  Or she could be down on the mid-deck, stalking among the crew and waiting for a chance to get close to Tanithra, Malus thought. He wasn’t sure how Bruglir would react if his first officer wound up dead with a knife in her back. Would he retaliate against Yasmir? There was no way to tell. For a moment Malus contemplated sending Hauclir forward to keep an eye on Tanithra, but he dismissed the notion almost as quickly. What could the retainer do? Come between the first officer and a murderous highborn lady? What would that achieve besides his death?

  The wind picked up across the deck, buffeting Malus’ hood and blowing a spray of fine ice crystals into his face. The sky was darkening as the Harrier crossed the squall line, plunging into the winter storm. Soon it would be hard to see more than a few feet in any direction and danger could fall upon them with little warning, striking from almost any quarter.

  Even within, Malus thought, his eyes scanning the crew. An old proverb came to mind as the storm swept over them.

  When darkness falls, the knives come out.

  The storm lashed at them like a tremendous serpent, battering hull, mast and sail with invisible coils of blustering, icy wind and hissing across the deck and rigging in a spray of ice and freezing rain. The teak planks and thick, hempen ropes were coated with a thin film of ice in moments, making every step treacherous and potentially fatal as the Harrier pitched and rolled in the fury of the storm.