Ghost Stalk Page 3

  He never would elaborate.

  VII

  The men were grumbling seditiously by the time we spied the Trolledyngjan again. For hours we had been pushing westward, either into the heart of the ocean or onto the rocky coasts of southern Freyland. We had left the waters we knew far behind. Though not one of us had been ashore in a long time, we liked it handy just in case. We were not deep-water sailors. Losing all touch seemed a nightmare.

  Colgrave stood on the poop like a statue, staring straight ahead, as if he could see through the spray and waves and rain. Reports of cracked planking, broken frames, and water gushing in as fast as the pumpers could bail, bothered him not at all. He persevered. That, if any one word ever did, encapsulated him perfectly. He persevered.

  Dragon larked about on the shoulders of seas as huge as leviathans.

  "I see her!" Lank Tor cried. How? I wondered. I could barely see him. But it was my cue. Daring the vengeful sea, I recovered my weapons, repaired to the forecastle deck.

  I could see her from there. She was a specter fading in and out almost dead ahead.

  The problem was the size of the seas. She swooped down one side like a gull diving, vanished in a trough, then staggered up the next wave like an old man in an uphill race. Her sail had been torn to tatters. Her crew had been unable to unstep the mast. Now they huddled on their oar benches, trying to keep their bows into the waves. They had no protection from Mother Ocean's worst. They were brave, hardy men. What would they do if she swamped?

  I never had much use for Priest. But when he clambered up to join me, he looked so puzzled and pathetic that I could not ignore him. "What's up?"

  "Whaleboats and Student. They're gone."

  "Gone? What do you mean, gone?" Whaleboats. My only friend. He could not abandon me.

  Where the hell could he go? Dragon's rails were the edge of our world.

  "Over the side, I guess. Where else? Nobody has seen them since they fished the Kid out." He paused, stared at the sea with the look that usually presaged a sermon. Awe, I think you could call it. "The Old Man wanted to talk to them. About why the Freylander didn't burn. One-Hand Nedo says he saw them dump most of the oil into the drink instead of on the deck."

  "Whaleboats?" Student, maybe. He had been spooky, unpredictable. But not the biggest womanhater on the Vengeful D. The screams of a tormented female had been like the voices of harps to Whaleboats.

  "Yes."

  "Strange. Very strange." The man who had fished the Kid out of the drink at Dunno Scuttair had also gone over the side within a few hours. Was the Kid a jinx? I did not think so. Losing someone was unusual, but not unprecedented. In fact, the Old Man had kept the Kid mostly because we had lost another man a week earlier.

  And the rebellion? Their failure to fire a captured vessel? That was beyond my comprehension.

  "Whaleboats? Really?"

  There had to have been more there than met the eye. I could feel it. It was something outside the normal ken, something almost supernatural. The same something that had gotten Priest into such a state.

  I could sense some terribly important revelation hovering on the marches of realization, teasing, taunting, a butterfly of truth on gossamer wings. Gods were trying to touch me, to teach me. I pictured Student's dusky face, peeping over the inevitable book. His eyes were merry with the mockery he had always shown when he hinted around his secret.

  Maybe he had known the way home. But miles at sea, amidst a storm, seemed a strange place and time to start the journey. There was nothing off Dragon but drowning and the teeth of fishes.

  Or had they swum to the Freylander? They could have expected no mercy from possible rescuers.

  Nobody died on the Vengeful D. Not in my memory, anyway, though that gets cloudier as it goes back toward my coming aboard. The battles might be fierce, gruesome, and bloody. The decks might become scarlet and slippery. Toke, who doubled as our surgeon (a profession he once had pursued), might stay busy for days sewing wounds, cauterizing, and setting bones, but none of us passed into the hands of Priest for burial with the fishes. All his prayers he had to save for the souls of our enemies.

  We, like Dragon herself, wore a thousand exotic scars, but, as Col-grave said, the gods themselves guarded us. Only restless, treacherous Mother Ocean could steal a soul from Vengeful D.

  It was no wonder the Old Man could hurl ship and crew against odds that would have assured mutiny on the most disciplined Itaskian man-o'-war. We believed ourselves immortal. Excepting Old Barley, we dreaded only the completion of our quest and the wizard trap that someone, someday, surely would spring.

  What would become of our band of cutthroats if we found The One, or if the gods withdrew their favor?

  We closed with the Trolledyngjan. Descending darkness, more than the storm, obscured her now. Still, when we were both at wave crest, I could see the pale faces of their chieftains. They showed fear, but also that dogged determination to die fighting that animates all northmen. We could expect them to turn on us soon.

  A creak-clump sound drew my attention. The Old Man had come forward. How he had managed, I could not guess. He leaned on the rail while we ran up and down several watery mountains. The ship's motion did not discomfit him at all.

  My guts were so knotted that it had become impossible for me to keep heaving them up.

  "Can you do it?" he finally asked. "The helmsman?"

  I shrugged. "In this? I don't know. I can try." Anything to end the chase and get Dragon out of that grey sea hell. He would not break off till we had made our kill.

  "Wait for my signal." In a journey that was almost an epic, he returned to the poop. As darkness thickened, he brought Dragon more and more abreast of the Trolledyngjan.

  She crested. He signaled. I sped my second-best shaft.

  She was not the banded lady. She wobbled in the gale, failed the clean kill.

  The helmsman had to drown with the others.

  Out of control, the Trolledyngjan turned sideways as she slid into a trough, broached.

  She survived one wave, but the next swamped her.

  One arrow. One deadly shaft well sped, and our part was over. The terrible, terrible sea would do the rest.

  Now we could concentrate on surviving. And I could look forward to respite from that constant soar and plunge.

  VIII

  Smooth sailing was a long time coming. We had to wait for a lull before putting about, lest we share the northmen's fate. Then we drove back into it, the wind an enemy as vicious as the waves. We made headway only slowly. Three torturous days groaned past before we staggered through a rainy curtain and saw land and quieter seas once more.

  The Old Man's dead reckoning was uncanny. He brought us back just two leagues south of Cape Blood.

  But the caravel, that we had halfway hoped to find still adrift, had vanished. We would get no chance to finish plundering her.

  Colgrave growled, "Tor, up top. Quick now." He surveyed the sea suspiciously.

  Someone had come along. There was no other explanation. The caravel was not on the rocks. And those women, courtiers all, could never have worked ship well enough to have sailed her away. Itaskians summoned by the coast watchers? Probably.

  They could be hanging around.

  The work began. Dragon had taken a vicious pounding. She was leaking at a hundred seams. We had cracked planks forward from the ramming of the Trolledyngjan. Their condition had been worsened by days of slamming into heavy seas. The rigging looked like something woven in a mad war between armies of drunken spiders. Dangling cables, torn sheets, broken spars were everywhere aloft. We needed to pull the mizzenmast and step a spare, and to replace the missing foretopmast. We had enough replacements on board, but would have to plunder new spares off our next victim.

  And stores. We had not gotten much off the Freylander.

  What had become of the keg Whaleboats had plundered, I wondered. I doubted that he had taken it over the side with him.

  That was a good sign.
I do not worry about alcohol when I'm seasick.

  We had the mizzen half pulled, the foretop cleared, sails scattered everywhere for Mica's attention, and half the lines and cables down.

  It was the perfect time.

  And the enemy came.

  As always, Lank Tor saw her first. She came out of the foul weather hugging the cape. Matter of factly, he announced, "Galleon, ho. Two hundred fifty tonner, Itaskian naval ensign."

  Equally calmly, Colgrave replied, "Prepare for action, bosun. Keep the repair materials on deck." He climbed to the poop. "And watch for more."

  It was my turn. "Signals ashore. Mirrors, looks like." There were flashes all along the coast.

  "Coast watchers. They'll be calling everything out of Portsmouth." Colgrave resumed his laborious climb.

  We wasted no time trying to run. In our state it was hopeless. We had to fight, and count on our fabulous luck.

  "Could be three, four hundred men on one of those," Barley muttered as he stalked past with the grog bucket. He was so damned scared I expected him to wipe them out single-handedly.

  "Sail!" someone cried.

  A little slooplike vessel, long, low, lateen-rigged, had put out from a masked cove. No threat.

  "Messenger boat," said Fat Poppo, who had been in the Itaskian Navy at one time. "She'll log the action and carry the report to the Admiralty."

  We did not like one another much, we followers of the mad captain's dream, but we were a team. We made ready with time to spare.

  The Itaskian came on as if she intended ramming.

  She did! She was making a suicide run with the messenger standing by, if needed, to collect survivors.

  The Old Man bent on a main-topsail and a storm spritsail, just enough to give us steerage way. At precisely the appropriate instant, he dodged.

  The galleon rolled past so closely we could have jumped to her decks. She was crammed with marines. The snipers in her rigging showered me with crossbow bolts.

  I leaned back and roared with laughter. Their best effort had but creased my right seaboot.

  Each of my shafts took out a Crown officer. Our men drew blood with a storm of javelins.

  To ram had been their whole plan. Going away in failure, they seemed at a loss.

  Wigwag signals came from the sloop. They were in a cipher Poppo could not read.

  "They'll be back," Priest predicted. It was no great feat of divination.

  Already they were taking in sail, preparing to come about. This time they would not roar past like a mad bull.

  "Find me some arrows!" I demanded. "Tor..."

  "On the way," the boatswain promised, gaze fixed on the Itaskian.

  I touched the hilt of my cutlass. It had been a long time since I had had to use one. I expected to this time, though. We had to take that galleon so I could recover my arrows. And get at their grog. Itaskians always carried a stock.

  Our luck had held that far. There was but one casualty during the first pass. The Kid. He had fallen out of the rigging again. He was just dazed and winded. He would be all right.

  The crazy little bastard should have broken every bone in his body.

  The moment the Itaskian was clear, Tor put everyone to work.

  Colgrave was crazier than I thought. He meant to try dodging till we completed repairs.

  They let us get away with it one more time. They had little choice, really. We had the wind. I put down as many officer-killing shafts as I could. But they were prepared for me. Their decision makers remained hidden while they were in range.

  The repair parties succeeded in one thing: freeing most of the men from the pumps. We needed them.

  Third time past, the Itaskian sent over a storm of grappling hooks. Despite flailing axes and busy swords and my carefully targeted arrows, they pulled us in, made us fast.

  It began in earnest.

  How long had it been since we had had to fight on our own decks? I could not remember the last time. But Itaskian marines overran the rail, swarmed aboard, coming and coming over the piles of their own dead. My god, I thought, how many of them are there? The galleon had them packed in like cattle.

  I expected them to drive for our castles, to take out Colgrave and myself, but they disappointed me. The point of their assault was the mainmast.

  I soon saw why. A squad of sailors with axes went to work on it.

  The Old Man thundered at Barley and Priest. They went after the axmen. But the Itaskian marines kept ramparts of flesh in their path.

  It was up to me. Ignoring the endless sniper fire, I sped arrow after arrow. That eventually did the trick, but not before they had injured the mainmast grievously.

  A grappling hook whined past my nose. What now?

  The Itaskian sailors still aboard the galleon were throwing line after line to tangle in our rigging.

  It was insane. Suicidally insane. No ship, knowing us, tried to make it impossible for us to get away. No. Even the proudest, the strongest, made sure they could escape.

  At least two hundred dead men littered Dragon's decks. Blood poured from our scuppers. And still the Royal Marines clambered over the hills of their fallen.

  What drove them so?

  The assault's direction shifted from the mainmast to the forecastle. Despite vigorous resistance, the Itaskians broke through to the ladders. I downed as many snipers as I could before, putting my bow carefully out of harm's way, I drew my cutlass and began slashing at helmeted heads.

  It had been a long time, but my hand and arm still knew the rhythms. Parry, thrust, parry, cut. No fancy fencing. Riposte was for the rapier, a gentleman's weapon. There were no gentlemen on the Vengeful D. Just damned efficient killers.

  The Itaskian captain sent the remnants of his sailors in after the marines. And, a grueling hour later, he came over himself, with everyone left aboard.

  IX

  As always, we won. As always, we left no survivors, though in the end we had to hunt a few through the bowels of their ship. An enraged Barley had charge of that detail.

  The long miracle had persisted. Once those of us who were able had thrown the Itaskians to the fishes, it became apparent that not one man had perished. But several wished that they had.

  I paused by Fat Poppo, who was begging for someone to kill him. There was not an inch of him that was not bloody, that had not been slashed by Itaskian blades. His guts were lying in his lap.

  Instead of finishing him, I fetched him a cup of brandy. I had found Whaleboats' keg. Then, accompanied by Little Mica, who did not look much better than Poppo, I crossed to the galleon.

  I wanted to find a clue to the cause of their madness. And a chance to be first at their grog.

  Priest had had the same idea. He was wrecking the galley as we passed through.

  Screams came from up forward. Barley had found a survivor.

  We found the brig.

  "Damned," said Mica. "Ain't he a tough one?"

  Behind bars was the Trolledyngjan we had thrown overboard. Must be important, I thought, or he would be sleeping with the fishes. Probably some chieftain who had made himself especially obnoxious.

  My banded arrow lay in his lap.

  I gaped. She had found ways to come home before, but never by such an exotic route.

  Mica was impressed too. He knew what that arrow meant to me. "A sign. We'd better take him to the Old Man."

  The Trolledyngjan had been eying us warily. He jumped up laughing. "Yes. Let's go see the mad captain."

  Colgrave listened to what I had to say, considered. "Give him Whaleboats' berth." He turned away, eye burning a hole in the southern seascape. The messenger vessel still lay there, watching.

  I returned to the Itaskian for the banded arrow's sisters.

  Ordinarily I did not do much but speed the deadly shafts. I was a privileged specialist, did not have to do anything unless the urge hit me. But now everyone had to cover for those too sliced up to rise, yet too god-protected to die. Not being much use in the rigging, I m
anned a swab.

  They had caught us good, had tangled us thoroughly. It would take all night to get free, and another day to replace the masts. The main, now, would have to go too.

  "They'll be here before we're ready," said Mica, passing on some errand.

  He was right. All logic said we had sailed into a trap, and even now the ladies of Portsmouth were watching the men-o'-war glide ponderously down the Silverbind Estuary.

  The Old man knew. That was why he kept glaring southward. He was thinking, no doubt, that now he would never catch The One.

  Me? All I wanted was to get away alive.

  I hoped Colgrave still had a trick or two up his elegant sleeve.

  Poppo waved weakly. I abandoned my swab to fetch him another brandy.

  "Thanks," he gasped. Grinning, "I know now."

  "What's that?"

  "The secret. Student's secret."

  "So?"

  "But I can't tell you. That's part of it. You've got to figure it out yourself."

  "Not Whaleboats."

  "Smarter than he looked, maybe. Back to your mopping. And think about it."

  I thought. But I could not get anything to click. It was a good secret. I could not even define its limits, let alone make out details.

  It had caused Whaleboats and Student to do something completely out of character: fake the fire aboard the Freylander.

  Darkness closed in. It was the most unpromising night I had ever seen. Signal fires blazed along the coast. The messenger moved closer, to keep better track of us.

  Those of us who were able kept on working. By first light we had stripped the Itaskian of everything useful and had freed Dragon. The Old Man spread the foremain and, creeping, we made for the storm.

  "There they are."

  This time I paid attention to Mica. This time it was important.

  Lank Tor and the Old Man, of course, had known for some time.

  There were sails on the horizon. Topsails. Those of seven warships, each the equal of the one we had taken. No doubt there were smaller, faster vessels convoying them.