Treason's Shore (101 page)

Viac Fisher said, “See that?” He stood at the jib sail lines in trousers, boots, vest, two knife sheaths strapped to his bare arms, weapons at his waist, as he pointed eastward into the night. The stars were vanishing slowly: gathering clouds. “That storm wind’s backing our line. Fox is raking their line with fire arrows.”

“Make that halyard fast and take the tiller, Loos. I’m going back to that mirror chart,” Jeje said. “I want to see these stinkers on the paper.”

Inda fingered out his note with his left hand as he swung his glass across the Venn fleet and then back. The others were all intent forward. Had Signi also kissed it? Inda pressed the paper to his lips, but all he tasted was the rice-rag of the paper and the salt in the air. He kissed it again, feeling the briefest sense of proximity of the people who loved him, whom he loved.

Why wasn’t Signi’s name among the others? Inda suspected that was because he sailed to war, against her people. There was nothing either of them could say. Better no communication than false words.

Grief, regret, cut cruelly. Inda thrust his kissed paper into a pocket and swung around, scanning the line of enemy ships.

“Inda! You’ve got to see this,” Jeje called from her cabin.

“What is it?”

Jeje said in a low, urgent voice, “I saw it yesterday, but didn’t think it meant much: the tings aren’t random, they ring out from the center. Now I know that the center is the command ships.”

“So?” Inda shrugged.

“So nothing, I thought, just like you. But I checked again, because the closer we got, the more that center blurred. Thought it odd. Listen, Inda. The flagship isn’t the only one sending out the ting commands. I’ve got the flagship pegged by sight on the mirror chart.” She had poked up through the hatch. Visible only as a silhouette, she jabbed her finger toward the central defensive formation.

“There can’t be two commands.” Inda frowned. Instinct insisted something was amiss, though he couldn’t define what. “Is the magic fading?”

Inda turned his glass south. More ships on fire, under the peaceful glimmer of stars above.

“The other command ship has to be there—three points off the weather bow.”

“There’s nothing there. Just a lone raider,” Nugget called softly from the lookout.

Inda sighed. So much for a miraculous occurrence, like on Andahi. “Probably just a backup for communication disaster.”

Jeje said, disappointed, “Guess I was wrong.”

Chapter Twenty-six

“W
HAT if the mers get us?” Halvir whispered. Rajnir leaned heavily on the boy’s shoulder. He tried not to—he could feel the boy’s light bones bending—but as soon as he shifted his weight to his own feet, his knees trembled. “If they get us, they get us,” he whispered, already out of breath. “But I don’t think they will. All this fire. Splinters. They must be far below, watching.”

“Watching the battle? Like it’s a ballad act?” Halvir’s wide blue eyes showed twin reflections of fire from distant ship battles.

Rajnir said bitterly, “If they’re human still, would they not love to watch a war?” He gripped the rail. “Now. Over, onto the mainchains—”

It was dark enough.

Erkric gestured to Yatar and his nephew, gathered his strength, and transferred. That left the two to perform their own transfers, which they did.

When the three had recovered, Erkric had glanced quickly around the
Cliffdiver
’s deck. The Erama Krona stood like motionless pillars, given wide berth by the crew. Because all Venn grew up knowing that you never approach or address the Erama Krona on duty, no one had noticed they were shrouded.

The sailors were mostly aft, ensigns tending the ting chart and sending their own tings, as Erkric had commanded through the king. If Durasnir went up in a blaze, Erkric would instantly be able to take command.

Erkric motioned the Yatars close. “The forces are well engaged. Let’s loose the magic now. Give both sides a demonstration of power. Yatar, you contact the mages. I’ll finish preparation of my gift to Elgar the Fox.”

The plunge into the water was shocking cold, sending bubbles tickling up Rajnir’s flesh. He opened his eyes, catching a glimpse of his white robe billowing before a sharp sting made him squinch his eyelids closed and kick hard, striving upward for air.

He broke the surface, gasping. Damn, damn! It was supposed to be easy to drown, or was that in ice water? Two small, cold hands closed on his wrist, and in the weak light reflected from the torches of the raider slipping farther and farther away, Rajnir made out Halvir’s round face, yellow hair plastered to his boyish skull, his eyes wide with fear and anxiousness.

“Come, O my king,” the boy gasped, then coughed. “Come, you can float if you turn over. I will guide you. We’ll swim for my father’s ship—it’s that one over there.”

Rajnir assented aloud, even as he schooled himself to fight instinct, to sink, to shed this meaningless life.

Erkric braced himself against the rail, closed his eyes, and began putting together the spells he’d already prepared. This was a volatile, dangerous accumulation of spells, but—

“. . . O my Dag.”

The interruption became more insistent, and a brief, bitter heat puffed as Erkric lost one of the spells. “What is it, Yatar?”

“There is no return contact.” The man held out his scroll-case, which should have the blue glows of acknowledgments on it. There were none. The case was dark, except for the faint beat of rosy fire reflected on the gold edging.

“That’s impossible,” Erkric whispered.

The two stared back at him. He’d chosen them because they were obedient, not because they were intelligent.

“Try again.” He mentally held the Fire Spell, though it was taxing. But he’d got used to these constant interruptions.

Yatar whispered the control spells, tapping his scroll-case for each message: three, four . . . nine. Each of the nine caused a brief yellow-white glow of a magical contact.

The three stood there, looking down at the case. And not one blue light glowed in it.

Where were the dags with the Norsunder magic?

Erkric whirled. Dag Byarin aboard the
Cormorant
was one of them—where was his spell? Was it possible he . . .

Disbelief turned into a vast unease. “Check on the king,” Erkric snapped, though he hardly knew why.

But when the nephew returned moments later, his face stricken, Erkric knew his instinct had been right.

“He’s gone. So is the boy.”

“Unshroud the Erama Krona. They will search—and die if they’ve lost him,” Erkric promised.

Within a short time the Erama Krona, armed with brilliant glowglobes, began a methodical search of the ship. And when they came back, the leader saying, “There is no sign of the king—” Erkric knew he’d been betrayed. He whirled around, aimed the half prepared spell at the flagship, and transferred it.

“Die, traitor!” he screamed, as blue fire erupted along the rails of the
Cormorant
and sheeted up to the sails.

The crew of the
Cliffdiver
stared, thrilled and appalled, at the gigantic conflagration—except for the Erama Krona, whose single thought was their life’s purpose: guarding the king.

“Here, Dag Erkric,” one cried, pointing toward the water a distance away. The light from the flagship’s fire radiated out, revealing two swimming figures drifting on the current. “Men overboard!”

A weird tearing sound, and a smell of bitter gases from deep beneath the ground were the only warning to those aboard the
Cormorant
. Hot wind scoured the ship, knocking everyone off their feet, leaving them gasping from the stench; all around fire blazed and crackled with terrifying suddenness.

“Magic attack—” Valda croaked, sneezing violently, and then heat and a glaring, searing light punched through the scuttles and knocked the dags to the wardroom deck.

Stars burst across Valda’s eyes as her chin smacked the wood. She shoved herself up, knowing what had happened—what to do—mostly driven by instinct and a maddened desire to fight. She flung her hands up, fingers cupped toward the sky, and whispered the words to draw water. Magic hummed through the reeking, smoky air, bringing a mass of water in a sheer wave, up, up, high over the side, to smash across the upper deck. Then she scrambled to her feet, ignoring the blood running from her cuts, and hastened up the ladder to the weather deck.

Steam rose everywhere. The writhing figures caught by the flames fell into the surging, swirling water. Some looked stunned, others horribly burned and dying; those who had not been near the starboard rail forced shocked minds to think, terrified bodies to act, and formed bucket teams, under Durasnir’s roared stream of orders.

Valda braced her trembling body in the frame of the dripping hatchway, and brought another spout up and over the burning mainmast, sending up billows of hissing steam.

Durasnir appeared and plucked her up from the hatchway as if she’d been a child. He set her against the rail. “Thank you for saving our lives.” He coughed, nearly breathless. “But look. All those glowglobes. What is happening on the
Cliffdiver?
”