Mouse flew up to him, chittered, and handed over a scrap of paper, then hovered while Feldrin read it. It was a reply to the last note he had sent over, more than an hour ago. He frowned to see the spidery script—Cynthia must have written it with a trembling hand—but reading it brought a tight smile to his lips.
“Good news?” Horace asked, his face a hopeful mask.
“Aye, good enough. Her fish friends say the scent is strong and clear. We’re gettin’ close.”
“About bloody time,” Horace replied scratching at his unshaven stubble. “We’re puttin’ a pinch on the water supply with this many people aboard, sir. We’re down by half already.”
“Cut the rations by a cup per day. I’ll ask Cyn if she might conjure us a little rain. There’s no turnin’ back now.”
“Aye sir.”
Horace turned and strode away, while Feldrin sketched a quick reply and handed it back to Mouse. “Hand this to her only if she’s not sleepin’, ay Mouse? You understand?”
The seasprite nodded, saluted and started to dart off, but stopped as Feldrin called him back.
“I got another job fer you, my little friend,” the Morrgrey said with a grin. “How high can you fly, and how far can you see? If you get high enough, you’ll be the first to see this floatin’ city. Look for a bit of cloud, like you see over an island, or maybe a reflection. Anything outa the ordinary. Got it?”
Mouse chittered in agreement, his countenance brightening. Feldrin watched through his glass as the sprite flitted over to
Peggy’s Dream
, deposited his note, then soared aloft like a silvery arrow.
Chapter 12
Strategic Withdrawals
Camilla stifled a cough as she followed Parek through the smoke-hazed halls of the keep. The fumes of a dozen bonfires wafted through the passages, heavy with the smells of burned wood, thatch and scorched flesh. She descended the stairs behind two pirates hauling a chest of her personal effects and concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other. Her knees threatened to buckle with every step, and she ached from a hundred bruises, scratches and abraisions—the tracks of Parek’s brutal lust, the price of the lives of the people she loved.
Camilla stepped out of the keep into the dawn twilight and stopped short. The beach was littered with ash, refuse, bones and bits of rotten flesh, and her legs simply refused to take her any closer to the carnage that lay before her. That she knew what—no
who
—those bits of bone and meat had been in life, appalled her on a level that made Parek’s brutality pale by comparison.
No more
, she thought, clenching her jaw against the gorge that rose in her throat.
No more
.
She tore her eyes from the horrific spectacle and looked toward the pier. The huge galleon had already pulled away, poorly tended sails flapping from her yards as her cannibal crew hauled inexpertly on lines and shouted at one another.
Manta
, her black sails trimmed smartly, was helping the galleon along, towing her via a bridle and long line that trailed from her twin transoms to the bow of the larger ship. The third ship,
Cutthroat
, sat low in the water beside the pier, her hold full of finery stolen from the keep, ready to leave…with Camilla aboard.
A chill washed down Camilla’s spine. An unending hell awaited her if she stepped aboard that ship, an eternity of pain and brutality…forever Camilla the slave. She knew that it would only end when she took her own life, or put a dagger in Parek’s heart and fell to the unmerciful attentions of the pirate crew.
There is a way out
, she thought,
but at such a risk
! Her heart beat so hard it pained her, but she knew she only had two options: go with Parek, or save herself and put those she loved at risk. Parek was already at the pier, calling orders to the crew of the
Cutthroat
to stow the last of the loot and set sail. The two pirates with her chest were picking their way carefully through the shifting sand and refuse of the beach, laboring with their burden. None had noticed that she was no longer with them.
Now
,
or never,
she thought, and with a heart-breaking wrench of guilt, she made her decision.
She turned on her heel and ran back into the keep, not looking back to see if anyone pursued her; she knew they would. Parek would come after her, but she didn’t have far to go to reach the only refuge available to her.
On the far side of the foyer stood the door to the dungeons and Hydra’s old lair. When Cynthia took over the keep, she had locked and barred the door, and it hadn’t been opened since. The pirates knew what lay behind the door, and had no interest in breaking it down to look for additional spoils. There was only one key, and it had been in Cynthia’s desk until this morning when Camilla had pocketed it, unsure if she would have the courage or opportunity to use it. Now, she thrust the key into the lock with trembling hands and turned it.
The lock clicked, but didn’t open.
“No…” she muttered through clenched teeth. Distant shouts reached her ears. She pulled and tugged on the huge padlock, rusted closed by two years of salt air. When she glanced out the door, icy fingers gripped her heart; Parek was walking back toward the keep, his brow furrowed with suspicion. He was coming after her. “No, no, no…”
Her fight with the lock became frantic. Finally she backed up and kicked it with all her might, slamming it into the iron-bound door.
It fell open.
Camilla pulled the lock off the hasp and dropped it, heaved up the wooden bar, and yanked at the door with all her strength. The rusty hinges squealed, but it opened. She glanced again, and Parek was only strides away, rage darkening his face.
She slipped through the gap and hauled the door closed. Darkness enveloped her, leaving her utterly blind, but she knew this door well; she had passed through it hundreds of times at the end of Bloodwind’s tether. There was a bar on the inside as well; a disused mechanism to seal off the lower regions of the keep against assault. Her fingers found the bar and pulled it down. Its pivot was rusted, too, but the weight of her body and the strength of her panic brought it slamming down just as a hard blow struck the other side of the door.
Parek.
She leaned against the door and felt the tremors of his assault, heard his muffled curses through the rough wood. No more pain, no more submitting to his touch…no more Camilla the slave, no more Camilla the whore. Once again, she was free. Laughter bubbled up from her throat, and her knees failed. She slid to the floor, her back to the stout wooden door, and laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks.
She was safe.
≈
“Bloody lying bitch!” Parek shouted, hammering the door with his fists, pulling on the handle until the skin of his palm split. “When I’m done with you, you’ll regret the cannibals didn’t get you first! Open this gods-damned door!”
“Sir?” one of his men said, his tone bewildered. “What’s wrong?”
“That red-headed bitch has locked herself in!” He cast about for something, anything, to bash the door to splinters. “Find me a ram, and be quick about it!”
“Aye, sir!” The man turned to dash away, but ran into Kori, the lookout.
“Sir! We got trouble!”
“What now?” Parek snapped.
“Sails to the north, sir, and not just a few. They gotta be warships!”
“Warships?” Parek stopped short. His hand slipped from the door handle, rage subdued by this more pressing threat. “How many, and how far?”
“A whole damn fleet, Captain. More’n a dozen.” Kori’s eyes were wide, his breath coming in gasps. “I could just see ‘em with a glass from the mountaintop, sir. They’re still far enough that they can’t see us yet. We got maybe an hour ‘til they sight our tops’ls, another hour ‘til they’re here.”
“By the hells!” Parek glared at the door and considered his prize behind it; a rare beauty, to be sure, but not worth risking capture. He shook his head. “No time, my dear,” he whispered, leaning close to the door. “No time to break down this door and give you what you deserve for lying to me, but I’ll thank you for the treasure, and leave you with a parting gift.”
Parek threw down the bar, flipped the hasp closed and picked up the lock. The key was still in it. He put the lock through the hasp and closed it with a click, then pocketed the key.
“Have fun in the dark, my sweet Camilla.” He rapped on the door with his knuckles, then turned away, grinning with the memory of their brief but rewarding time together. He’d never had a woman quite like her, and likely never would again, even with a king’s fortune at his disposal. But he’d take what he could get; if gold couldn’t buy quality, it could certainly buy quantity.
“To the
Cutthroat
!” he ordered, and strode toward the doorway. “We’ve got to get around the southern point and up the windward side of the island before they spot our sails, or we’re done for, lads! We’ll never outrun ‘em, laden like we are. Make sail, and don’t spare the canvas!”
Parek followed his men and leapt aboard
Cutthroat
. The ship, her foresail already aloft and billowing in the breeze, strained at the dock lines, and Parek ordered them cut. They made for the channel, piling on more canvas, and left the smoldering ruins of Scimitar Bay behind. Captain Parek glanced back once, and tipped his hat to the lady he had left in the dark.
≈
Cynthia leaned against the foremast, staring into the distance through slitted eyes that saw nothing. Though her eyes were unfocused, the rest of her senses were keenly attuned: she felt the water around the ship as if it bathed her own skin, sensed the winds as if they were her own breath. She pushed the slick of seaweed away from the bow to ease their passage and urged the winds to fill the sails, propelling the ships ever forward. She felt the solidity of the mast against her stiff back, grateful for its sturdy support; she doubted she had the strength to stay upright without it.
Beyond exhaustion, she kept herself going with blackbrew and sheer stubbornness, refusing to relent, refusing to sleep. Feldrin thought her determination was spurred only by love for their child and her resolve to get him back. To a certain degree that was true, but Cynthia knew that something darker drove her: guilt.
This was all her fault.
She had overlooked the true nature of the mer, had not seen Eelback’s subtle manipulation. She had never dreamed any mer would do what he had done: call the mer to war, sacrifice so many lives, lure her into a confrontation that she had promised them she would not back down from, all just to steal her child. She had let herself be blinded by the dream of peace, but the dream had ended up a nightmare that she relived every time she closed her eyes. Behind her lids loomed no sweet unconsciousness, but images of a blood-choked sea, slaughtered men, dying mer, the war she had vowed to prevent, and an innocent child in the cold clutches of traitors. So many lives had been sacrificed because of her own failure.
She felt the wind falter as she brooded on these thoughts, so she pushed them away and concentrated on her tasks. There was naught else she could do. She ignored the torrid heat, the sweat trickling down her ribs, the dull ache behind her eyes…there was only the wind, the sea, and the ships.
An earsplitting screech snapped her from her half-trance. She ducked instinctively—a rigging failure? A metal ring or bolt sheering under too-heavy a load?—but a silvery streak of gossamer-crystal wings, accompanied by another screech, told her that it was only Mouse.
“Gods, Mouse! You’re going to scare me to death with your—”
He snapped to a hover before her, his tiny face alight with excitement. He grabbed the lapel of her blouse and tugged, chattering like an insane cricket and pointing off into the heat-hazed distance.
“What? Wait, Mouse. Stop!” He stopped, even to the point that his wings stopped fluttering. He would have fallen to the deck had he not been gripping her shirt. She snatched him up and said, “Now, what is it? You’ve seen something?”
He nodded, eyes wide, and pointed in the same direction.
“Something bad?”
He gave a non-committal “Eeep,” and shrugged, but pointed again.
“Chula!” she called.
“Aye, Capt’n?” He joined her beside the mast. “Somethin’ amiss?”
“I don’t know, but Mouse spotted something about two points off the port bow. Rouse your lookout. I want to know what it is.”
“Aye, Capt’n.”
He relayed orders. While they waited, Cynthia squinted against the glare of the sun. The flat, weed-covered sea spread in all directions, and mirages played on the horizon. She rubbed her eyes to dispel the bright spheres that dotted her vision. After a few minutes, the lookout called down, “Dere’s a cloud on de horizon dere! It’s small, but dark on de unda-side, like.”
“That’s it!” Cynthia said, surging with sudden energy. “Change course, Chula, and signal
Orin’s Pride
that we’ve sighted something.”
Orders were relayed, and in the span of a minute every hand on watch stood in the rigging, squinting into the distance. Cynthia urged on the winds and parted the weeds that slowed their progress, her concentration renewed. In less than an hour, the fore-top lookout called down again.
“Capt’n! Dere’s somet’in’ ahead! Looks like an islan’!”
“Yes!” A grim smile creased Cynthia’s face, her bleary eyes watering with sudden relief. “We’ve found it, Chula! Get me a quill and paper. I need to write a note to Feldrin, then I’ve got to go over the side to talk with Chaser; we don’t need the undine anymore. Oh, and make sure all hands are up and armed. Who knows what surprises Eelback may have in store for us.”
The ship stirred with a flurry of activity that would have put a warship preparing for battle to shame. Steel glinted everywhere as swords and boarding pikes were readied, and the four great ballistae were cranked back and loaded. Ghelfan appeared on deck bearing paper, quill and ink for Cynthia, an ornate rapier at his hip.
“I gather from the commotion that we have discovered the lost city?”
“It looks that way, Ghelfan.” She scrawled a quick note, rolled it up and handed it to Mouse. “To Feldrin, Mouse.” As the seasprite streaked off toward
Orin’s Pride
, another voice drew her attention.
“What’s going on, Cynthia?” Edan had come on deck, rubbing sleep from his eyes, his hair rumpled like a carrot-colored dandelion. “Trouble?”
“Not yet, but there could be. I suggest you arm yourself and get ready.” She raised her viewing glass and stared at the dark smudge on the horizon. “We’ve found Akrotia.”
≈
Chaser watched Seamage Flaxal Brelak rise on the water that carried her back up to her ship. Her news that they had sighted Akrotia both excited and disturbed him. To be able to see the legendary city with his own eyes…what a thrill! But the reason they sought the city in the first place hung over his elation like a suffocating cloud of silt.