The Night of the Swarm

34

Monday, 22 Teala 947.

Surely this is how men feel on the Redemption Path through the Tsordons, at the end of six months afoot, looking up at the last, steep slope of the Holy Mountain. I can’t climb that. I must climb that. If I climb another foot something in me will shatter. If I don’t climb, Rin’s light will never again warm my soul.

We are that close, and that desperate. Sixteen days north from Serpent’s Head, most of them in the Swarm’s frigid shadow, fighting leaks we cannot locate, fighting scurvy, numb with fear. Who will remember for us? Not me, not good Captain Fiffengurt: I can’t remember last night’s dinner, though Teggatz has served the same three Gods-damned dishes for a month. A poor memory is one reason I fill these pages. Another is because the very hunt for words helps me stumble on through this fear. Towards what? An end to the Nilstone? A dream of Anni and our child, my seven-year-old boy or girl? Or the cold end of Alifros, the Swarm grown larger than the world it hovers over, the sun extinguished, the Chathrand crushed like an eggshell by the frozen sea.

In the year 900 I went ashore in Uturphe and paid eight pennies for a peep show, as tarboys will. When I stepped out again my mate said there were Mzithrinis in the city trying to burn the docks. We were thrilled. We raced each other to the port. I was fast then and left him behind, but I didn’t know Uturphe and misjudged the distance. Before I knew it I was at the waterfront and there I saw a Mzithrini soldier gut a man like a mackerel. The victim was flat on his back and holding the killer’s forearm as though offering assistance and his face was like a mackerel’s too. The Sizzy glanced up at me and saw my abject horror and grinned. I ran and hid in a basement until Arqual retook the port. That was my first death. I thought I’d never recover, and in a sense I was right. The foolish, openhearted scamp who ran to those docks vanished there; it was a changed, colder boy who got away.

Now look at the sea of blood through which he’s passed. Hundreds slain on this voyage. The whole of humankind dead or mindless in the South. Dlomu killing dlomu, armadas burning cities, mages and generals wielding engines of death. In the North, a Third Sea War’s raging, the ‘Big One’ of which we’ve all lived in fear. Now this. A levitating horror. A shapeless mass that swallows fleets, that has grown so large we have spent the last nine days beneath it, never glimpsing its edge. We are freezing and afraid. Night brings infinite blackness. Dawn brings a feeble twilight that lasts all day.

The Chathrand is talking to me: she is full off odd shudders, unsettling creaks. And her stern is riding strangely low. We shift ballast forward; she levels off. But the next day there is a hint of the problem once again. I cannot account for it: we have sprung no leak, and no cargo or armaments have been shifted to the stern. This is no crisis, yet, but it is a mystery, and one more nail in the coffin of my hopes for sleep.

What solace I find is in the new faces. We are part of a flotilla, now: five warships, nine lesser gunboats, twenty ragtag service vessels. That is all that remains of Maisa’s great rebellion, or at any rate her navy. After the slaughter at Serpent’s Head, of course, her loyalist enemies back home are hardly better off.

Admiral Isiq spent five days with us on the Chathrand, days in which he and his dear girl were inseparable, of course. Now Isiq and Commodore Darabik have gone back to Nighthawk, the rebel flagship. Still with us, though, are some hundred rebels, the vast majority from Etherhorde. Our homesick lads must be driving them to distraction, begging for stories of home. The rebels for their part listen to our talk of Bali Adro and Floating Fortresses with a weird mix of terror and resignation. They can’t really doubt us, for just overhead is something stranger than any part of our tale. Something you could look at for a month and still think That just can’t be.

A less enjoyable passenger is a certain stiff-necked Mzithrini commander, who was camped on Serpent’s Head with a small battalion. I hate him: Bolutu tells me he shot Mr Druffle on a lark and tried to leave the rest of our people chained to trees. All the same, he had wisdom enough to hide his own ship (a sleek little gunboat with lovely lines) well out of the fighting, in a cove on the island’s NW quarter. That vessel is our escort, now, and I am glad to have a Mzithrini in the lead as we sail into enemy waters.

Stiff-Neck is blunt with us, all the same: ‘You are sailing to your deaths. The bulk of our navy has been destroyed, but what remains could still make a gruel of this little force. Around Gurishal we keep a wide perimeter guard, and a second patrol force near the island’s shores. They will destroy you easily — unless the Swarm has devoured them all.’

Rin forgive me, I brightened at the thought, but Ramachni declared it all but impossible. ‘That is not how the Swarm does its work. Look at Serpent’s Head: men were still dying among Maisa’s forces, but the Swarm passed over them, attacked the epicentre of death, and flew on in search of another place where the war was at its height. Always it hunts the largest prey. But that will only protect us while there is large prey left to hunt.’

‘And the Nessarim?’ added Stiff-Neck. ‘Who will protect you from them? We control the seas, but they own the land, and guard it like war-dogs.’

‘But this whatsit, this Arrowhead Sound we’re making for — Neda says it’s blary remote.’

‘They will be there, regardless,’ said Stiff-Neck.

After Serpent’s Head we had a week of cold and blackness. Then a dawn came when even the Turachs wept with joy, for half the sky was free of the Swarm. That ugly malignancy had glided northwards, and its terminal edge was almost directly above us.

Here was a proof that raised our hearts: proof that the thing did not yet fill all the skies of Alifros. Proof that we were not too late. We felt the sun for a good eight hours before it drifted back again and plunged us into the dark. Now it has been nine days, and I begin to wonder if we shall ever see blue sky again.

It was in those eight bright hours that I made a play for Stiff-Neck’s trust. Pazel’s sister and Hercol urged me to it, and I see now that they were right. What we did was take him down to the manger, to the Shaggat’s filthy lair. We let him bring his men-at-arms, but told them nothing before we arrived. Neda insisted on that point.

I unlocked the door and swung it wide. His Nastiness (as Rose called the Shaggat) stood in the middle of the chamber, wearing nothing but a rag about his privates, holding a large and soiled book. A massive chain linked his ankle to the stanchion. Chadfallow had fitted a brass cap over the stump of his left hand. The nails on his right were long and yellow, like the teeth of rats. He was glaring. He seemed somehow to be expecting us.

Neda was first into the room. But before she entered she spat on the threshold, rubbed the spittle with her boot, and spoke some words in Mzithrini in a kind of sing-song, like an incantation or a charm.

‘That’s him,’ I said to Stiff-Neck. ‘Your devil incarnate, your hated man.’

Stiff-Neck looked at me, scandalised. ‘Liar,’ he said. ‘The Shaggat drowned forty years ago. Why do you Arqualis insist on peddling this tale?’

We filed inside. Neda’s hand was on her knife-hilt. She glared at the Shaggat with a loathing that transformed her pretty face. The Shaggat did not move, but his eyes, like a marionette’s, followed our every move. I found his calm almost as disconcerting as his frothing rage had been. Then those eyes turned on me.

‘Warden,’ he said, ‘have you brought me the Stone?’

The Sizzies circled him, muttering, unable to look away. Neda spoke to them in their own tongue, and pointed to the Shaggat’s tattooed neck.

‘She speaks the truth,’ said Hercol. ‘Our ship was to convey the Shaggat to Gurishal, that he might lead his throng against you once more. We were a minority on this ship, but we fought their wicked plan from the start.’

‘No one fights me,’ said the Shaggat. ‘Men and Gods, murths and demons: all are my tools. I use them, break them as I please. As I burned alive the army of King Morlach, and starved his masses, saving only the daughters for my legion’s delight, so shall it be in this kingdom. And you who dream of opposing me, opposing your Living God, shall suffer first and longest.’

I saw belief dawning in the Sizzies’ looks. Belief, and rage, and something else I couldn’t yet identify. They kept their distance. When Neda spoke to them, they quickly shook their heads.

‘You draw near Gurishal,’ said the mad king, ‘but I have flown ahead of you. Already I have touched my people, woken their anger, slain the faint-hearted, rewarded the bold. I am there, and in every land. You cannot escape me, Warden. All Alifros is mine.’

I cleared my throat. ‘See here, Commander, I figure this man belongs in your hands-’

Stiff-Neck cut me off, his voice strange and thin. ‘He calls you warden — that is a kind of jailor, yes? You kept this monster in secret. It’s all true. Your depravity exceeds our wildest dreams.’

‘The cold has come, and the darkness!’ boomed the Shaggat suddenly. ‘My wrath has brought them, and will devour you.’

‘Oh shut up, it ain’t your doing,’ I said.

The Shaggat’s eyes were still locked on my face. ‘It is long since I saw you kneel,’ he said.

‘You’ve never seen it, you old bilge-mop.’

‘Warden,’ he said, ‘I am going to rip open your skull, stake you writhing to the ground, slash your stomach open and pour in scalding-’

Neda gave an eagle’s scream. She jumped high, turning in mid-air like a temple dancer, and as she came to earth she buried her knife in his chest.

The Shaggat gave a little cough, shut his eyes deliberately, and fell forward, dead, with a crash that dislocated his jaw.

‘Partha, it is done,’ she said.

Hercol was the first to come to life, jumping between Neda and the Sizzies. I don’t know what he expected, but their response floored everyone but Neda. They ran. Even the commander leaped for the door, naked fear in his eyes. Only then, after all this time, did I grasp the power of the Shaggat cult. These men had always loathed him and all he stood for. They’d all have sworn on their grandmothers that he’d died long ago — that was the official story of their faith. But they still feared him. They still thought he might be a God, or a devil. They expected us all to be blasted right out of the manger.

‘Stay, stay!’ bellowed Hercol. ‘By the Unseen you revere, be brave! He was a man, nothing more, and now he is dead!’

The soldiers were out the door already. But Stiff-Neck raised his hands and grabbed the door frame, as though restraining himself by brute force. He struggled there a moment, then turned with a jerk to stare at the corpse.

‘Your sister has killed the Shaggat Ness,’ said Hercol.

The man was trembling, drenched in sweat. I didn’t think he would ever find his voice. But at last he looked at me and spoke.

‘Embalm him. Now, very quickly. Can you do it?’

‘We can manage,’ I said.

‘And the knife: do not clean it! His blood, his blood must be left there, to dry.’

‘I’ll send for a coffin.’

He whirled on Neda, hissing something, and Hercol drew Ildraquin with a swish. But the man wasn’t threatening her. Bending low, he touched her feet. Neda blinked in amazement and made him rise.

I got no more Arquali out of Stiff-Neck; he was too moved to use our tongue. But hours later over a cup of selk wine (the Shaggat in vinegar, Neda’s knife sealed in a box), Hercol explained what had transpired.

‘She gave them his death,’ he said, ‘but also his body. His unmistakable body, with all its tattoos and birthmarks and legendary scars. The Mzithrinis have tried to stamp out the Shaggat cult for decades, Captain. But how do you prove a man dead without his corpse? Now that they have it, they believe they can at last eradicate belief in this madman, and heal their faith. Of course, none of this will matter, unless we triumph at Gurishal, and lift the curse of the Swarm.’

‘What about Neda?’

‘They are already calling her the Assassin, and speaking of her like a saint.’

Hercol looked a bit unsteady, and I told him so. He smiled wistfully.

‘I am fond of the girl, that’s all. I wish no destiny upon her, or her brother for that matter. They have both seen trouble enough.’

Fond of her, is he? Rin bless ’em both, though nothing is likely to come of it. Neda Pathkendle is still too much the Mzithrini, and Hercol likes his women small. As in eight inches.

‘There’s something else gnawing at you, though, ain’t there?’ I asked.

After a moment, he nodded. ‘I have been to see my old master,’ he said.

‘What, you mean Ott? In the brig behind the Green Door and all?’

‘I had to tell him, Fiffengurt. About what Neda did. All his life Sandor Ott has dreamed of destroying the Mzithrin. His plot was brilliant, to stoke the fires of the Shaggat cult to war again. But now it seems that all his effort could have the opposite effect. He has, perhaps, done them the greatest turn of any Arquali in history.’

‘You said that to Ott, did you?’

‘Not for gloating’s sake. I merely needed him to see how things had ended.’

‘What did he do?’

Hercol took a thoughtful sip of wine. ‘He called me a traitor, as he always does. Then he sat down and wept.’

Thursday, 25 Teala. My worst fear is realised: the keel has cracked a second time. I can hear the rasping, the splintering, feel the shudder in the keelson when we crest. I do not know if the repairs in Masalym have failed, or the Nelluroq storms have broken her along some other part of her spine. Perhaps this is why her stern rides low? Who can tell? In these waters there’s no hope of an inspection, let alone a patch. We must simply pray that her strength does not give out before the mission’s end. Oh dear Grey Lady, what we’ve asked of you.

Friday, 26 Teala.

The lamp oil is running out. We are freezing, groping about in the dark like human moles. Stiff-Neck frowns and paces the forecastle. He’s in an odd fix: surrounded by enemies in his Empire’s home waters, escorting a ship launched to destroy his people, guarding a corpse that could heal their divisions, racing with his foes against a common doom.

And there’s more. At five bells today we passed an islet no larger than a castle and shaped like a broken tooth. The Sizzies took one glance at it and starting muttering afresh. Pazel listened in and reported to me: they knew that barren rock, and did not understand how we could be anywhere near it without encountering patrols.

Even with the damaged keel I have pushed the Chathrand to her limits, and we have left the other ships in our flotilla behind — all save Stiff-Neck’s own vessel, and the warship Nighthawk, with Darabik at the helm. But just where are we? Stiff-Neck responds to my question with a stare, as though perhaps I don’t deserve to be told. Then he grits his teeth and says, ‘Close to Gurishal. Within days of her, in fact. They must have disbanded the wide-perimeter guard, to add more ships to the battle at Serpent’s Head. But the inner guard still awaits us.’

Perhaps, but his men still gaze fearfully into the distance. And tonight there were strange lights to the north: bright flashes, orange and green. To my mind they were obscurely familiar.

Saturday, 27 Teala.

Another black dawn, another day on sunless seas. No land, no stars. Among the men, no talk or smiles or appetite. Felthrup and Marila are tearing through the pages of the Polylex, for what aid I cannot fathom. Thasha sits in her room facing the wall, Pathkendle says, with her face clenched in furious concentration. Lady Oggosk is praying on the quarterdeck.

In short, despair, and Captain Fiffengurt has no special immunity. But when I retreated to my cabin this evening I found a gift beneath my pillow, and I record it here as the day’s token source of hope — and a peace offering, maybe. I know who brought it, though it came with no card. It is a great blue pearl.

Sunday, 28 Teala.

Another glimpse of the sky: miles off to westward, and receding. It was night, but a little moonlight bathed the sea. How many has the Swarm killed, now? How many shiver beneath it, waiting for the end? And the animals: pity the creatures, mad with fear, running from the writhing mass above and never escaping. Off with this lamp now; my oil ration too is spent.

Monday, 29 Teala.

I stood on the (slightly aft-tilted) quarterdeck and made a speech about the ixchel. How many are left alive (besides Ensyl and Myett) we do not know, I told them, but we must show forbearance if they appear again. The world is dying, I said, and I’ve reason to think they know it too. Let us be practical, I said. We may find they’re a help to us in the final hour.

It was not a brilliant speech: I lack Rose’s gift for rousing a crew. Mutterings and murmurs swept the topdeck. ‘They have a talent for ship-sinking, Captain,’ someone growled.

‘Who do you think you’re educating, damn you?’ I fairly shouted, on the point of telling them about the Adelyne, my drowned uncle and his babe of three. Instead I just dismissed them, with a warning that the man who harmed an ixchel would answer to me.

An utter fiasco. If Talag was offering peace or help with that gift of a pearl, his spies will warn him now to keep his distance. I am a weak captain and a fool.

Wednesday, 1 Freala.

Horror, horror. Very well, let it come. Annabel, you’re the keeper of my heart; I close this journal until I hold you again, in this world or the next. We have reached Gurishal, but we are not the first. Macadra’s ship is here, guarding the entrance to the Arrowhead Sound, and a demon crouches on the burning wreck of a Mzithrini patrol. They are waiting. They are daring us to approach.