Army of Shadows

20

Vant's rage swamped any finesse at swordplay he might have possessed. He hurtled at Spurral like a maddened bull. And now she saw that in addition to his cutlass he brandished a long-bladed knife. He swung the weapons like some kind of demented juggler, smearing the air with a metal haze.

Spurral hastily withdrew, trying to stay supple and anticipate where and how he might strike. An impossible task when facing someone as crazed as Vant, she soon realised. All she could do was keep moving. It was a strategy with limited value: inevitably he closed in on her and she was forced to engage.

The impact of the first blow she blocked had her staggering. The second came close to putting her down. She retreated once more, just a few steps this time, then feigned going in again. It was intended to wrong-foot him. Instead, she had to quickly duck as his blade whistled over her head.

A cacophony of yells, screams and clashing blades served as background.

All around them, dwarfs and Gatherers battled. The surprise element had more momentum than Spurral guessed, and the islanders were driving home their advantage. Taken unprepared, dead and wounded crewmen littered the deck, or fought desperate rear-guard actions. Some of the crew, those from the night watch, had been sleeping when the rebellion broke out. Their awakening was rude.

Not that the dwarfs had it all their own way. They were facing hardened brigands and, as proof, the bodies of their dead and wounded were nearly as plentiful.

Avoiding two blades wielded by someone demented with fury was taxing Spurral. Already she was less light on her feet, and her arms were starting to feel leaden. Taking the offensive, she opted to rush Vant, sweeping her sword like a scythe. It was his turn to swerve. He moved just fast enough to elude her low swipe. His anger further heightened, he was back on the offensive without pause. Another round of battering followed, rattling Spurral's bones.

It was shaping up as less than an even match, and Spurral knew she had to find a different strategy or lose. The thought occurred that if she couldn't change the way he fought, perhaps she could change where. She turned and ran. Bellowing, he dashed after her.

She headed for one of the few parts of the ship she was familiar with. That meant leaping over corpses and skirting fights. At one point a Gatherer tried to bar her path. She deflected his cutlass on the run, and left him to cope with a trio of dwarfs closing in at his rear.

Spurral arrived panting at the galley door. It was half open. She kicked it in, Vant close behind. Inside, she was relieved to find the place empty, and raced to the interior. A second later he crashed in behind her.

"You little freak!" he screamed, lips foaming. "Stand and take what's coming!"

"You want me," she hissed, "you come and get me." It was a bold challenge; he was between her and the only way out.

Her hope was that the restricted space would cramp his movements and perhaps give her, with the smaller frame, a slight edge. A bonus was that there were plenty of potential weapons in the galley. Or rather, missiles. She grabbed an iron cooking pot and lobbed it at him. It fell short, clattering at his feet, and Vant furiously kicked it aside. He began to advance. Spurral took to bombarding him with anything that came to hand. She threw kettles, pans, a wooden mallet, skillets, flagons, trenchers and a heavy ladle. Several of the objects struck him, but he seemed oblivious to any hurt they might have caused. The only obvious effect was that his vehemence rose to even greater heights. She started to wonder if anything would stop him.

There being nothing else within easy reach to throw, she braced herself for his onslaught. Oblivious to the broken crockery and utensils underfoot, Vant stormed her way. She stood her ground. There was little choice: the narrow, windowless galley's farthest wall was no more than ten paces behind her.

Spurral had to hold her sword two-handed to hang on to it, such was the energy of the pounding he delivered. She managed, just, to stop any of his passes getting through, but her every attempt at turning her defence into an attack was thwarted. He staved her off with almost contemptuous ease. Despite her resolve to stand firm, the sheer power of his pummelling was forcing her to retreat. And she knew that if her back touched the wall her chances of survival would be vanishingly slim.

Desperation breeds ingenuity. Or insane recklessness. Something she noticed out of the corner of her eye, and the idea it gave her, could have fallen into either category. They had drawn level with the two largest kilns. Their fires had recently been banked, and the water in the massive cauldrons they supported was boiling vigorously. The clouds of steam they gave off misted the room. Condensation ran down the walls and dripped from the ceiling.

What Spurral had in mind was potentially as harmful to her as to Vant, and she wasn't sure if she'd be nimble enough to steer clear of injury. But she did it anyway.

She swung her sword as hard as she could, not at the captain, but at one of the cauldrons. As it struck, she flung herself backwards. She hit the floor at the same time that the cauldron toppled from the oven, drenching Vant in scalding water.

He screamed in agony. Letting go of both his blades, he sank to his knees, a cloud of steam rising from his sodden clothes. His skin was already raw and blistering. A few drops of the boiling water had splashed on Spurral, and stung like hell. She could hardly imagine how it felt for him.

His screams cut through her like a knife, and she was sure they could be heard throughout the ship. Then he collapsed completely to writhe on the floor moaning.

She got to her feet and looked down at him. A quantity of the water had hit his face, inflaming it to the point where it was almost unrecognisable. There was an odour of seared flesh.

Spurral didn't know if the burns were severe enough to kill him, but if they were, it would evidently be a lingering, painful death. As much as she had grown to hate Salloss Vant and all he stood for, as much as she resented the humiliation he had heaped upon her, it wasn't in her to be sadistic.

Somehow she had been parted from her cutlass. It was by the kiln, whose fire had been extinguished by the cascade of water. The sword's blade was broken in two, presumably from striking the iron cauldron. She picked up Vant's long-bladed knife.

He was squirming, and perhaps trying to speak, or curse, but the sounds were strangled and unintelligible. His eyes, though glazing, still had a spark of malice. If he recognised Spurral as she leaned over him, he gave no sign.

She lifted the knife high, two-handed, and plunged it into his heart.

Once the deed was done, the wider world seemed to re-establish itself. For the first time she noticed the fusty smell from the quenched fire. Again she was aware of noises from the rest of the ship; distant cries, running feet, chiming blades.

The door flew open. Several figures barged in. She snatched up Vant's cutlass, then realised it was Kalgeck and two or three of the other dwarfs.

They stared at Vant's gently steaming corpse, and at Spurral. Their saucer-eyed expressions mixed disbelief with admiration.

"My gods," Kalgeck whispered. "You all right, Spurral?"

She nodded. "How's it going out there?"

He tore his eyes away from Vant. "We've managed to deal with most of them. Some are holding out."

"They'll lose heart quick enough when they know their chief's dead. Let's get him to where he can be seen."

They dragged the body out to the deck. It left a wet trail, and they dumped it in plain view, the knife still jutting from its chest.

There was a standoff. The majority of the Gatherers who hadn't given up were occupying the bridge. But possession of the wheel meant nothing when the dwarfs had mastery of just about everything else, most importantly the rigging. Without control of the sails, the ship was going nowhere.

When the holdouts saw Vant's corpse their resolution crumbled. The dwarfs gave them assurances that they wouldn't be harmed. Whether they believed it or not, the crewmen had little option but to surrender.

The islanders found themselves with getting on for twenty able-bodied prisoners and about a dozen wounded. They herded them belowdecks to the prison hold they'd had to endure.

As they watched them descend, Spurral remarked, "Looks like you have your own slaves now."

"That's not our way," Kalgeck told her.

"It's to your credit that it isn't. Hostages, then. To deter the Gatherers from raiding your home again."

"I was thinking we might be able to trade them for some of our kin who got taken."

"Good idea."

"If we can find out where they are, of course. Which might not be easy."

"I know. But you could see this as an opportunity."

"To do what?"

"To venture out from your homeland. You've got a whole world to explore. Fear's kept you prisoners on your island as surely as the Gatherers held you captive on this ship."

He hadn't looked at it that way. "Yes," he replied thoughtfully, "maybe we could."

The sound of a splash turned their heads. Dwarfs were pitching the bodies of dead humans overboard.

"I can't believe we beat them," Kalgeck said. "It seems… unreal."

"We did it because they didn't expect it of us. It's a good lesson. Remember it."

"We did it because of you. If you hadn't — "

"You did it yourselves. You just needed to know you had it in you. That you could overcome the fear."

"At a price." He nodded towards a line of dwarf bodies, covered in blankets, laid out on the deck.

"Freedom always has its price, Kalgeck. I hope you'll come to believe it was one worth paying."

"What do we do now?"

"We sail this ship back to your island."

"How? I mean, we know a bit about seafaring, but we've only ever really done close-to-shore stuff, like canoeing."

"We'll manage. If we have to, we'll get some of those humans to help us."

"Would they?"

"What's their alternative? Drifting out here with us forever? We'll make 'em think their lives depend on it, if need be."

He smiled. "Right."

"You're learning. Only let's get underway soon, shall we? There's somebody whose company I've been missing."

Jup had sunk into melancholy. He spent most of his time standing alone at the prow, searching for a sail or any other sign that might give him hope.

Stryke laid a calloused hand on his shoulder. "There's no sense brooding."

"There's little else to do."

"Take a turn on the oars when we change over. Work off some of those worries."

Jup smiled wryly. "That's what I like about you orcs. You see everything so… direct. But some feelings can't be got rid of that easily."

"You'll snap out of it when we catch the Gatherers."

"You think we will?"

"Whatever it takes."

"Thanks." The dwarf eyed his captain. "Expect you think I've gone soft."

"No."

"We dwarfs tend to mate for life. So to win Spurral and then lose her…"

"I know how I'd feel if anything happened to Thirzarr, Jup, or the hatchlings."

"She sounds a good sort, your Thirzarr. Wish I could have met her."

"You'd get on. You've something in common."

"What's that?"

"You're both stubborn as mules."

Calthmon, one of the veteran Wolverine privates, called out from the oars, "They're gaining on us!" He pointed at the mysterious ship stalking them.

"He's right," Pepperdyne confirmed. "They're putting on some knots."

Stryke hailed the second boat. "See that?" He indicated the ship.

"We noticed!" Coilla yelled back. "What do we do?"

"Row double time and put some distance between us."

"Run?" Haskeer exclaimed. "Since when did we dodge a fight?"

"If it's the same lot who ambushed us in Acurial," Stryke told him, "I don't want to face their magic in open boats. Now up the pace!"

All hands to the oars, the boats increased speed, and at first they widened the gap.

"They're catching up!" Dallog warned.

Pepperdyne looked back. "At this rate they'll be on us in no time."

"There's no way of outrunning them?" Stryke asked.

"Not with the wind-power they've got. Only thing I can suggest is we take our boats on different courses. Spread the targets."

Stryke considered it. "No. If we have to make a stand we'll do it together."

Sails billowing, the ship came relentlessly closer. Finally it slowed and was looming over them. Seeing no point in wasting the rowers' muscle power, Stryke ordered the oars to be drawn. But he passed the word that they should be ready to resume at short notice.

"Now what?" Jup wondered, staring up at the massive wooden wall overshadowing them.

Figures appeared at the ship's rail and looked down at the boats. They were of diverse species, and familiar to the orcs.

"It's them all right," Dallog said. "The bunch from Acurial. And there's that elf who leads them."

"Attention, Wolverines!"

"What the hell?" Jup exclaimed.

"This is Pelli Madayar."

"How is her voice that… loud?" Dallog said.

"It's being amplified in some unnatural way," Pepperdyne reckoned.

"Must be magic," Stryke agreed.

"Hear me, Wolverines! We have to talk."

"About what?" Stryke yelled.

"The topic I broached with you in Acurial."

"She's on about the stars again," Jup said.

Stryke nodded. "You've had your answer on that!" he shouted back. "Nothing's changed!"

"I have to insist that we negotiate. Heave to and board our ship."

"No way!"

"Would you prefer that I came down to you? To show good faith."

"You don't get it, do you? There's nothing to talk about!"

"Refusal isn't an option, Captain Stryke. If you won't negotiate, I must demand that you hand over the artefacts."

"Demand be fucked!" Haskeer thundered loud enough for all to hear.

"Who they hell do they think they are?" Coilla added, enraged.

"Steady!" Stryke cautioned. To Pelli Madayar he bellowed, "You were told before: we don't take kindly to demands!"

"Then we cannot be held responsible for the consequences of your obstinacy."

"Why can't she talk plain like everybody else?" Haskeer grumbled.

"Pass on the word to be ready to move," Stryke told Dallog under his breath.

" This is your last chance, Wolverines," Pelli warned. "I strongly advise you to lay down your arms and parley with us."

"Go!" Stryke roared. " Move! Get those oars moving!"

The boats glided away, the rowers straining. Stryke was no seafarer, but he knew a sailing ship couldn't set off from a standing start the way his boats could. He just hoped they'd get enough of a head start to stand a chance.

But the Gateway Corps had no need of pursuit.

The orcs had barely escaped the shadow of the ship when the air crackled. A blinding luminous beam struck the short stretch of water between the two boats.

More shafts of incandescent light, red, purple and green, immediately followed. All came close to the vessels, but like the first they punched the ocean. Where they landed, the water boiled and gave off clouds of steam.

"Are they warning shots?" Pepperdyne wondered.

"Either that or they're lousy at aiming," Stryke came back.

No sooner had he spoken than a fiery bolt struck the craft Coilla commanded. It wasn't a direct strike; the beam sliced into the rail and clean through one of the oars, neatly severing it. The impact was enough to rock the boat.

"To hell with this," Stryke cursed. "If one of those hits dead-on we're done for."

"So what do we do?" Jup said.

"Give 'em something back." He yelled an order stridently enough that it could be heard on both boats.

Stryke had had the foresight to place a more or less equal number of the band's best archers in each vessel. The order he issued, using phrases that meant nothing to outsiders, told them which strategy to use.

They plucked prepared arrows, with tips wrapped in tar-smeared windings. Sparks were struck, igniting the bolts. Then, at Stryke's signal, they were loosed in the direction of the ship — not at any of the beings on board, but at the sails. Most of the viscous, flaming missiles found their target, igniting the sheets. In seconds, several patches were ablaze. Figures could be seen running about the deck.

"Now let's move!" Stryke shouted.

The boats pulled off again. To their rear, the sails were well alight. Several more energy beams flared from the ship, but they were wide of the mark.

"That'll give the bastards something to think about," Jup commented.

"For now," Stryke said. "But I don't think they're the sort to give up too easily. Come on, rowers! Put your backs into it! "

It didn't take them too long to put a respectable distance between themselves and the burning ship. Nevertheless, Stryke didn't let the boats slacken their pace. He wanted to get as far away as possible.

"What do you reckon to the damage on the other boat?" he asked Pepperdyne.

"Hard to say without actually being over there. But it doesn't look too bad from here. It's not been holed, that's the main thing. We should be able to patch it up soon as we get the chance."

"Good enough."

Throughout the whole episode Standeven had done exactly what they expected of him: he kept low and cowered. Now he rose and gingerly made his way to Stryke and Pepperdyne.

Seeing him approach, Stryke said sarcastically, "Come to help, have you?"

"No," the human replied soberly, as though it were a genuine question. "I wondered…"

"Spit it out."

"I wanted to be sure the instrumentalities were safe."

Stryke glared at him. "What?"

"They're secure, right?"

"What the hell's that got to do with you?"

"It concerns all of us. They're our only way to — "

"They're just fine." Despite himself, Stryke's hand instinctively went to the pouch.

"You're sure that they — "

"Why the interest? What business is it of yours?"

"Like I said — "

"Ignore him, Stryke," Pepperdyne intervened. "It's just his weak-minded fear talking."

Standeven shot him a venomous look.

"Well, he can keep his fears to himself in future and let me look after the stars."

"Of course, Captain," Standeven said, oozing with sycophancy. "I wouldn't have it any other way." He turned and picked his way back to his seat.

Stryke glanced at Pepperdyne. The human didn't meet his gaze.